


The Wizard and the Prince OR Between 4 and 5 3/4 Weddings and a Narrowly Avoided Funeral

by Kenjiandco



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2003136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenjiandco/pseuds/Kenjiandco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago, in a magical kingdom far away, there lived a prince, strong and handsome and beloved by all.<br/>Though the prince could have had the love of any subject of the realm, he chose as his companion a Wizard of great renown, a man of letters and learning and a scholar of the ancient wisdoms.  He eschewed the comforts of his lofty palaces to dwell with his Wizard in his tower, filled with the tomes of knowledge that had been his sole companions before the Prince discovered him and filled his life with love.  </p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>Wedding planning gets the better of Jean, causing a rift between him and his soon-to-be husband.  While Marco takes a trip that reminds him why he fell for Jean in the first place, Jean finds some wisdome from the last place he would have thought to look for it:  all their friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Huntress and the Stag

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing commission for tumblr user myfemalegaze! I hope you enjoy it!

 

 

_Long ago, in a magical kingdom far away, there lived a prince, strong and handsome and beloved by all._

 

_Though the prince could have had the love of any subject of the realm, he chose as his companion a Wizard of great renown, a man of letters and learning and a scholar of the ancient wisdoms.  He eschewed the comforts of his lofty palaces to dwell with his Wizard in his tower, filled with the tomes of knowledge that had been his sole companions before the Prince discovered him and filled his life with love._

 

_And so the Wizard and the Prince dwelt together in peace, and rarely had cause to leave their fortress of knowledge…until there came a day that they were called upon to attend a ceremony, in celebration of a most unusual union.  The Wizard set aside his studies and donned his robes of ceremony, in time to attend to the calls of the peasant youth who tapped respectfully on his tower door, and addressed the Wizard thus—_

 

“Will you _move your goddamn ass_ Kirchstein, we are _going_ to be _late!”_

 

“ _Fuckin’_ hell.”  Jean slammed his book shut and rolled his eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar prickle of his new contacts. 

 

“ _We’re coming!”_ Marco called from the bathroom as Eren Jaeger redoubled his assault on the door at the bottom of the stairs.  Jean winced as both voices echoed around the little attic-level apartment.

 

“Levi’s gonna start muttering about raising our rent again,” he grumbled to himself.  “And why’s he assuming it’s _me_ holding us up?” he asked aloud as Marco emerged fully from the bathroom, still attempting to flatten his hair. 

 

“You have to ask?” Marco grinned and draped an arm around Jean’s shoulders, handing him the suit jacket he’d abandoned over the back of his squishy reading chair.  “C’mon.  I don’t know about you, but I do _not_ want to be the man to piss of Sasha Blause on her wedding day.”  Jean winced.

 

He threaded his fingers through Marco’s as they clattered down the narrow stairs behind Levi’s bookshop, which occupied the old stone building’s ground floor.  Levi himself was currently occupying the first floor landing, which opened into his little office behind the shop.

 

“What the hell is that hearse doing in my back yard?” He said by way of greeting.  Jean and Marco looked at each other, and then out the window on the landing, where Eren had, against all probability, managed to wedge a modestly-sized limousine into the narrow alley behind the building. 

 

“Come _onnnn,”_ Eren yelled from the doorway.  His unruly hair showed signs of having been combed in recent times, but it was already ruffled by the agitated fingers running through it.  “Step on it, I can’t exactly break speed limits in this thing.”

 

“If he gets pulled over take pictures,” Levi muttered to Marco.  He started to turn away, and then spun back around and gave the taller man an analytical once-over. “Hold on. C’mere.” Levi beckoned Marco over, pulled his head down by the collar, and ruffled his carefully slicked back hair. 

 

“ _Hey—“_

 

“There.” Levi released him and nodded. “Much cuter. You may go.”

 

“ _Twenty-five,”_ Marco grumbled as they squeezed into the back of the limo.  “I’m twenty-goddamn-five and he still fixes my hair before I go out—“

 

“You _do_ look cuter with your hair like that,” Jean said mildly, jerking the door shut.  “Hey, Mikasa.  Why are _we_ the limo delivery service?”

 

“It’s a surprise,” Mikasa said, as her longtime boyfriend slammed back into the driver’s seat.  “It’s Mike’s wedding present, so stay out of the champagne—“

 

“ _Champagne?_ Where?”

 

“ _Get your hands out of—“_

 

“So if Connie and Sasha are leaving in the limo,” Marco said, thoughtfully, as Eren eased the big car out of the alley and back onto the main roads, “how are _we_ getting home?”

 

All heads turned to Eren, who had a sudden and distinct deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face.

 

“ _Shit.”_

 

 

_And so the Wizard and his Prince were born aloft in an overlarge chariot the color of the night sky, and carried away over the mountains to the land near to the horizon itself._

 

_It was the greatest huntress in the Prince’s kingdom who had summoned them forth, to bear witness to a most unusual ceremony.  For when they arrived near sunset (a most beautiful time in the land where the horizon is near enough to touch) the huntress was nowhere to be found.  The Wizard stood before his Prince to shield him from any danger in this new place…and it was well he did, for they were met at the edge of the forest, not by the Huntress, nor any of her hounds or handmaidens, but by a great Wolf, its pelt the color of new-risen sunlight on a lake of gold._

 

_“Welcome,” said the Wolf, inclining its golden head to the Wizard and his Prince.  “We thank you for your travels today.”_

 

_“Where is the huntress?” The Wizard demanded, but the Prince stayed his anger with a hand upon his shoulder._

 

_“We thank you for the courtesy of your greeting,” the Prince said to the Wolf, with a courtly bow.  “Do you bear this greeting alone, or do you come at the will of another?”_

 

_At his kind words the great Wolf stepped aside and from behind him came a Stag.  These noble beasts were many in the forests of the Prince’s kingdom, towering masters of the wilderness bearing crowns of antlers that seemed to carry the stars in their branches.  But the beast now before the Wizard and his Prince was small and slight of stature, its coat of fur rough and pale.  It bowed its head in greeting, much as the wolf had done, and to the travelers spoke thus:_

 

_“Well do you know the skills of the Lady who has called you here, a huntress unmatched, who has fed the people of this land since she was old enough to draw a bow.  And yet, as truly as I stand before you, just once she has chosen to stay the flight of an arrow, for the sake of this unworthy creature, and for the sake of the love that we have found in each other.  We have called you here to bear witness to our love, that we may live out our lives together.”  The little stag bent its forelegs, sinking to its knees on the ground before the wizard and his prince._

 

_“We ask for no gifts, only your blessing of our union.”_

 

_The Prince laughed, a sound as musical and joyful as birdsong in the trees at sunrise, and knelt before the little stag himself, raising it to its feet._

 

_“No love in this land needs blessing from me,” said the Prince, “for_ all _love is by its very nature blessed.  We are honored to witness the joy of your union.” The handsome prince stepped aside and beckoned the Wizard forward. “If you wish for a blessing yet, that duty I will leave to my companion, for the magic and power of words is a gift that he commands, not I…”_

 

“Connie, on this your wedding day, I have but one thing to say to you.” Jean clapped both hands on his old roommate’s shoulders.  “God _damn_ you can wear a tux.”

 

“ _Jeaan,”_ Marco muttered in his ear.

 

Connie rolled his eyes, tugging on the collar of his black suit jacket.  “Coming from you, I’ll take it as a compliment. Stop looking so humiliated, Marco.”

 

“Jean is tragically incapable of feeling humiliation,” Marco grumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck.  “I have to be embarrassed for both of us.  It keeps the world in balance.” 

 

“Seriously, you look great,” Jean said, grinning at Marco in surrender.  “Where’s Sasha, and what’s the minimum number of times I have to tell her she looks gorgeous to avoid being murdered?”

 

“I have no idea, and given what she spent on the dress I’d go for at _least_ seven.” 

 

“Firm believer in the ‘no seeing the bride on the wedding day,’ huh?”

 

“She got up at three in the morning and barricaded me in the bedroom,” Connie said flatly.  “I began my wedding day by climbing out a third-story window.”

 

“We were _gonna_ let you out at seven.”

 

“ _See?_ Even my best man betrays me.” Connie glared half-heartedly at the tall, broad-shouldered newcomer, who returned his glare with a wolfish grin.

 

“Correction.” Reiner Braun slung an arm around the groom’s shoulders.  “Even your best man thinks your soon-to-be-wife is _far_ scarier than you.”

 

“I am a _cop_ woman _.”_

 

“Yeah, and you’re adorable.”  Reiner ruffled his hair, which was just barely long enough to qualify as a buzz-cut. 

 

Jean clapped Connie on the shoulder and wandered off in search of beer.  This was Sasha’s wedding, after all…it would be there somewhere, and it would be copious.

 

The wedding venue, such as it was, took the form of Sasha’s parent’s backyard.  Sasha’s parent’s backyard took the form of about 90 acres of rolling hills, dotted with oak trees that thickened on the slopes of the mountain ridge on the horizon behind the old farm house, turning gold as the setting sunlight splashed over the slopes.  Sasha and her mom had strung white and gold Christmas lights through the trees around the house, which were flicking on as the daylight faded, reflecting in the rocky pond at the center of the yard. 

 

It was, Jean reflected, fishing through the ice in a mostly-empty cooler on the wide back porch, _stupidly_ gorgeous. 

 

“Connie and Sasha huh? Who’da thought…” Jean glanced up as Eren wandered over, and brightened up considerably at the two beers in his hand.

 

“Anyone with _eyes?”_ he suggested, taking the cold bottle and twisting the cap off with the edge of his jacket.  Eren rolled his eyes.

 

“I mean…back when we were freshmen, y’know, who would’ve thought _Connie_ would be the first of us to get married?”

 

“You mean besides Reiner and Bertl?”

 

“Okay, the first of us to _have a wedding,_ not elope to Vegas.”

 

Jean shrugged, leaning back to rest his elbows on the table.  “I dunno, it wasn’t hard to see coming.  Those two were _made_ for each other.”

 

“Love from the second Connie arrested Sasha’s dad for poaching.” 

 

Jean snorted and toasted the air sarcastically.  “A true fairy-tale romance.”

 

“So when’re you thinking?”

 

Jean stared at Eren, waiting for clarification.  Eren just returned the stare with equal confusion.

 

“Whaddaya mean _when?_ When _what?”_

 

_“When,”_ Eren said slowly, like he was spelling out instructions to a child, “are _you,_ that’s _you,_ Jean Kirchstein, and _him,_ that’s Marco Bodt, that’s your boyfriend of the last six years, going to get _married?”_

 

Jean blinked.

 

“I…I uhm…” he dropped his gaze, feeling his ears burn.  “I guess I never thought about it,” he mumbled into his beer.

 

Eren set his bottle down with a thump.  “You’re _kidding.”_

 

“ _What?_ I mean, we both wanted to take it slow…we’re happy where we are…I…I never thought about it,” he repeated. 

 

Eren shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.  His hand strayed to a lump in the pocket of his dress pants…he’d been doing that all night, constantly checking as though he was afraid it would disappear.  “Whatever works for you, man,” he said with a shrug.  “I’m gonna go find ‘Kasa…”

 

He wandered off, leaving Jean standing alone on the back porch, staring out at the cheerful gathering without really seeing it.  He hadn’t been kidding…even if he _was_ inclined to discuss the details of his romantic life with Jaeger, he hadn’t been kidding.  Marrying Marco was a prospect that had honestly never entered his mind, but now it was looming up over his mental horizon, blotting out the sky.  He watched Eren thread through the gathering until he found Mikasa, chatting with Marco’s half-sister and her tiny blonde wife.  Eren leaned on his girlfriend’s shoulder and ran his fingers through her long, glossy hair, saying something in her ear that made her roll her eyes and smile, elbowing him away.  Connie was still where he’d left him, talking to Reiner and Marco.  He’d raise his hands occasionally, tugging at the unfamiliar tuxedo collar in a rush of nervous energy, but all his jittering was tempered by barely concealed excitement, blazing happiness that colored everything he did.

 

“Hey, you.”

 

Jean jumped – he’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed Marco make an excuse to Reiner and come to stand beside him on the porch.  Marco smiled and leaned into his side. “Penny for your thoughts?” He caught Jean’s free hand and casually laced their fingers together. 

 

“My thoughts are worth at _least_  a buck-fifty,” Jean grumbled, trying to sound offended as he settled back against Marco’s comforting warmth, squeezing his hand. 

 

Marco’s lips brushed his temple. “Don’t push your luck.”  Jean sighed and dipped his head, holding Marco’s hand tighter.  Written words were so much easier…the second anyone asked him to voice his thoughts aloud, the emotions seared across his mind shattered into helpless stammering.  Marco was easier: that he was easy to talk to was the first thing Jean had ever loved about him, when they met in college years ago…but even with him there were times when the words just wouldn’t come. 

 

“Connie looks happy,” he managed eventually.  _Happy,_ what the hell kind of word was _that_ for someone who’d devoted his life to the study of storytelling to use.  He looks _happy._ Jean Kirchstein, Ph.D candidate in classic literature...he took a deep breath (and another swig of beer) and just let all the words come out in a rush. 

 

“Marco, do you ever think you’d want to—“

 

He was cut off as all the lights in the trees above their head blinked out, then on again, and Marco looked up, grinning as music started playing.  “I think that’s our cue,” he said, leaning over to kiss Jean’s cheek again, and they joined the general flow towards the rows of folding chairs laid out at the bottom of the yard.

 

They found seats towards the front, next to Eren and Mikasa, as the music kicked up in volume, and almost the second Jean had sat down Marco was tugging him to his feet again, turning around to look as the back door of the house opened.

 

“Connie Springer, you lucky _lucky_ bastard,” Eren muttered under his breath, at the same time as Marco breathed “Oh _Sasha,_ baby…”

 

Even Jean’s familiar mental narrator was briefly at a loss for words as Sasha stepped carefully off the back porch, her arms linked through her parents’ on either side of her. He’d known her for years, but he could come up with less than a handful of times he’d seen her with her hair down: free from its usual ponytail, it fell almost to her waist, the thick, shining curls interspersed with strands of little silver flowers that gathered to form the headband of the veil that fell back over her shoulders.  She moved differently too, in absence of the muddy combat boots she was usually never without, graceful and silent as befitted one of the best competition archers living.  She also, Jean thought, walked like she was _thinking_ about every step, counting them down, resisting the urge to kick off her delicate heels and just run to the man waiting for her at the little altar under a spreading oak tree.

 

Jean looked from Sasha to Connie, whose face was lit up with more emotions than Jean’s beloved English language had names for.  Reiner and Bertholdt (who’d broken out the full pastor’s robe and vestments he usually just skipped, preferring informality) were both grinning down at him, clearly basking in his incandescent excitement as Sasha walked down the aisle towards him. 

 

Jean briefly shut his stinging eyes as Sasha kissed her parents on the cheeks and broke away from them, coming to stand in front of the altar as Bertholdt began to speak, his soft voice carrying in the still air.  He was talking about the oak tree, about symbols of loyalty and hospitality and Jean squeezed Marco’s hand in his and tried to picture _them_ in Connie and Sasha’s place, tried to picture _Marco_ under that tree, waiting for him, glowing for him, or himself turning away from an altar to the sight of Marco walking towards him like he was trying not to run…

 

“Do you, Conra—“

 

“Don’t you _dare_ call me Conrad, Bertl.”

 

“Do you, _Connie_ Springer, keeping in mind that I’m _supposed_ to say what it says on the marriage certificate,” Bertl said, raising his hands in surrender as laughter rolled through the gathering, “take this woman to be your wife?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Do you, Sasha—“

 

“Skip it, Bertl,” Sasha said, her voice choked with a combination of tears and laughter.  “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

 

“Do I need to tell you what to do nex—obviously not…”

 

Sasha had already caught her husband by the collar and pulled him to her, both of them laughing into the kiss as Connie reached up to tangle his fingers in her hair, mussing up the careful curls. 

 

“Ladies gentlemen and distinguished guests, the bride and groom!” Reiner yelled above the cheering, and Sasha wound up and _hurled_ her bouquet overarm into the gathering.  Eren whooped, Marco ducked, and Jean barely had a chance to register the oncoming projectile before it bounced off his forehead in an explosion of petals and dropped straight into Mikasa’s lap.

 

“Nice catch, Jean!” Sasha called, her arms still twined around Connie’s shoulders.  Next to him, Eren and Mikasa looked from the bundle of flowers to each other, wearing nearly identical expressions of shock.

 

Marco just laughed softly and brushed the petals out of Jean’s hair.

 

* * *

 

“No, yeah, drop all four of us off and we’ll just walk from Eren’s place… _awesome,_ thanks Reiner.”

 

“I take it we have a ride home?” Mikasa called over the music as Marco rejoined them at the edge of the throng of dancers. 

 

“We have a ride home!”

 

“We need to rub it in.” Jean looked around, twisting to one side to avoid the admonishing punch Marco threw at his shoulder. “What did you do with Eren anyway?”

 

“He’ll turn up,” Mikasa said mildly, smiling as she watched Connie and Sasha dancing.  She’d twined several of the flowers from Sasha’s purple bouquet into her hair, where they were clashing magnificently with her scarlet scarf. 

 

“How are you holding up?” Jean asked quietly as Marco came to lean into his side again.  He knew loud crowds were a major source of anxiety for his shy boyfriend, but Marco was often too polite to simply speak up when he wanted to leave. 

 

“Oh, this is _fine,”_ Marco replied.  “Outside helps with the claustrophobia.  Besides, it’s all our friends.” He sighed happily, his long arm settling warm and heavy over Jean’s shoulders.  Jean nestled his head into the crook of Marco’s arm, watching the gold and silver lights playing over their friends dancing on the grass. 

 

“Marco, let’s get married.”  The words were out before he’d thought twice about it, born on the deep contentment that had been bubbling in his chest all night.  They were isolated enough that no-one else heard it, but Marco’s arm dropped away from his shoulders and he spun around to face Jean, his big eyes wide and sparkling in the lights.  A part of Jean’s brain desperately started backpeddling, but his tongue plunged on without him.  “I mean I know you’re happy with where we are and I am too, but…look how happy they are.  And Reiner and Bertl and Sasha’s parents and…why not us?”  he reached out and took both of Marco’s hands in his, aware that his boyfriend was trembling (and completely oblivious to the music getting a little quieter, to the dancing stilling as Sasha slipped out of the crows and some rustling and whispers behind him.)  “What do you say, Marco? Let’s get married.”

 

“ _Hey Jean! Duck!”_

 

Marco’s open mouth snapped shut, and he planted a hand on Jean’s head and pushed it down as he started to spin towards the shout.  Something flew over his head, Mikasa looked around, and her hands shot out on reflex to snatch _another_ bouquet out of the air.  Behind Jean, Sasha grinned, massaging the shoulder of her throwing arm. 

 

“I got the message the _first_ time,” Mikasa laughed, but she trailed off, brows furrowing as she looked down at the bouquet in her hands.  It was only _half_ flowers, the red blooms mixed with little folded strips of paper tied to false stems.  She cocked her head and tugged one loose, unfolding it: there was a little message scribbled on it in handwriting Jean recognized as Reiner’s.  She unfolded another message – Christa’s handwriting, Sasha’s, Connie’s, Levi’s, even Marco’s and Jean’s…he remembered Eren asking him to write some little note to Mikasa, saying she was feeling down, _weeks_ ago.  Whatever this was, he’d been planning it…

 

All eyes had turned to Mikasa by this point, and she was smiling ear to ear, her normally stoic gray eyes sparkling with tears as she plucked a paper rose out of the center of the bouquet and tugged loose the diamond ring tied in the center.  Jean heard gasps and squeals running the gathering as Eren walked up behind her and she turned to face him,

 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking for a little help,” he said, looking up at her through his tangled bangs.  Mikasa put a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.  “There’s just…so, _so_ many reasons to love you, ‘Kasa, I couldn’t possibly name them all myself, so I asked for help…but believe me when I say I mean every one of them.” 

 

Mikasa smiled and held out the ring to him, and Eren just took her hand and curled her fingers closed around it, sinking to one knee as he did so.  “There’s enough things wrong with me to fill a _field_ of flowers, ‘Kasa, but if I’ve got you…none of them matter.  Mikasa Ackermann, will you marry me?”

 

Her answer was barely audible, squeaked into her hand as she smiled so wide it would have looked painful if it hadn’t been so pretty.  “ _Yeah,”_ she whispered, grabbing Eren’s hands and pulling him to his feet, he was breathing fast, laughing as she kissed him.  “Yeah, I will.”

 

Jean just stared at them as the applause started up all around them, Sasha diving out of the crowd to fling her arms around both of them, trying to smile as his heart turned into a block of ice in his chest. 

 

Eren had been planning this for _weeks…_ sweet, personal, _perfect…_ what had he been _thinking,_ proposing to Marco like that?  _Hey Marco, let’s get married._ He didn’t even have a _ring…_ how were they supposed to start a life together with _that? Hey Marco, let’s get married…_ Marco should hate him, seeing that pathetic excuse for love contrasted against Eren and Mikasa.

 

Jean gritted his teeth.  He’d known Eren practically all their lives, he’d grown used to Eren besting him in everything…and now Eren was better than him at _love,_ at _life…_ he had to fix it.  If the proposal had been sad and stupid and…and _ringless and dumb,_ then the wedding had to be _perfect…_

 

He was so tied up in that hot, miserable little whirlpool inside his head that he actually started when Marco’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug, a little pocket of quiet as their friends swarmed Eren and Mikasa.

 

“ _Yes,”_ he whispered in Jean’s ear, lips brushing his skin warm and soothing. “ _Yes, yes yes yes yes.”_ He sounded _happy,_ deliriously, perfectly happy and to Jean, that hurt worst of all.

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay so buffet-style is more options, but it works out to about fifty a plate…and that chicken thing was what, thirty-five?”

 

“For the main, yeah, but then there’s appetizers and desserts on either side…the buffet includes those so I think it works out cheaper in the long run…where’d you put that breakdown?”

 

“It’s over here…” Sasha picked up a messily stapled packet of pages and slid it across the  cluttered table in Jean and Marco’s tiny kitchen.  Jean grabbed it and shoved his glasses up into his hair, glaring at the lists of prices.  “Yeah this looks better, we’ll do this one.”

 

He dropped the packet decisively…and only gradually became aware of the awkward silence pervading the room.

 

“…what do you think, Marco?” Sasha said quietly.

 

Marco pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think I never want to look at food again.” 

 

“Welcome to the catering world,” Sasha laughed.

 

“I also can’t believe you’re spending the month after your honeymoon helping plan _another_ wedding.”  Marco stared at the blanket of papers and catalogues that had overtaken most surfaces in their apartment, feeling completely overwhelmed and more than a little queasy. 

 

“Jean was…” Sasha hesitated for a second.  “Very persuasive.”  Marco grimaced.  He could guess how that conversation must have gone.  Anyone less easygoing than Sasha probably would’ve knocked his teeth out.

 

“Jean…” he said.  “Jean?” A second later Jean actually looked up, and Marco pretended he hadn’t seen Sasha elbow him hard in the ribs.  “C-can I…” he paused to swallow another wave of nausea, “can I see that?”

 

“Hm? Yeah, whatever.  _Shit,_ Sasha, does that place to vegetarian options? Or vegan? We need to have vegetarian options…are we gonna need two cakes? Where can we get a vegan wedding cake—“

 

“Do you have any vegan guests?” Sasha asked, frowning.  Marco tried and failed to tune them out, chewing on his lip as he looked down the list of prices.  They couldn’t afford this.  There was no _way_ they could afford this, even with Jean’s parents helping them out…Marco found himself fidgeting with his new ring again, spinning it around and around his finger, the small stone’s setting digging into the side of his thumb.

 

The ring was beautiful.  He loved it…he really loved it…he really _wanted_ to love it, as much as he’d tried to insist to Jean that he didn’t _need_ a ring.  The way Jean’s whole face lit up when he’d talked about wanting to get married had been all he needed, the way his eyes softened when they watched Connie and Sasha dance, looking from them to Marco and knowing that Jean was picturing _them,_ dancing under the trees like that…

 

“We put vegetarian/vegan options on the RSVPs,” Jean was saying.  “Like Eren did.  But _he_ just had vegetarian…”

 

Marco shut his eyes.  _There_ it was.  Sooner or later, whenever the wedding was being discussed (and it was _all_ that was being discussed, these days) _Eren_ always managed to work his way back into the conversation. 

 

Jean and Eren had been friends almost all their lives (when they weren’t beating the shit out of each other), and Marco knew that deep down in the pit of sweetness at his core, Jean adored him.  But their friendship had always been competitive and Jean, his sweet, insecure, belligerent Jean, always felt overshadowed by Eren’s breezy, bullheaded confidence.  And Eren had to pick the same night to propose…it had been so close to perfect…no, it _had_ been perfect, it had been everything he’d ever dreamed of, but the moment Eren got down on one knee he’d seen Jean’s eyes grow cold, that old inferiority complex rising up out of the depths like a dead fish bobbing to the surface.

 

“We can’t afford this…” he whispered.  He saw Sasha glance his way, but Jean didn’t even pause.

 

“We won’t know for sure until all the save-the-dates come back and I mean I don’t think any of our friends are vegans but there’s always plus ones…and I need to call that guy about music.  We’ve gotta have live music Marco, I think Eren’s just getting Armin to DJ for him so if we can find a band—“

 

“How are we gonna pay for that?”

 

“It won’t be bad,” Jean said, waving off the question.  “I know you were worried about the guest list but these venues are both pretty big so we can just...” he was talking too fast and too loud…Marco loved him but he _hated_ it when Jean got like this, loud and frenetic and unstoppable as a steamroller…and steamrolled was exactly how he felt.  Flattened. 

 

“You didn’t change the guest list? I thought—“

 

“I don’t want to leave anyone out, not when you’ve got such a big family and there’s all our friends, it’s not too big, don’t worry about it.  It’s gonna be _perfect…_ it _has_ to be perfect—“

 

“Jean—“ Sasha began, looking from him to Marco, who was staring down at the tabletop, fists clenched on his knees. 

 

“Especially since we can’t do it until three months after Eren and Mikasa, and it is _still_ lame, by the way, that you couldn’t get that one thing moved—“

 

“My mom’s birthday?”

 

“—whatever—hey, will you grab that dress catalogue since you’re up?” Jean still hadn’t looked up from the table, scrolling through one of the endless lists he had saved on his phone as Marco stood up, chair scraping across the linoleum.  “We’ve got to figure out who’s standing up for us, I don’t know why we haven’t done that yet, I know Eren’s already asked—“ The front door slammed with a _bang_ that made the table judder, and Jean finally stopped talking. “—Marco?”

 

Sasha sighed and slapped a hand to her forehead.

 

“ _Marco!”_

 

* * *

 

 

_The Wizard and the Prince found themselves lost, the road diverging beneath their feet.  Too many miles behind them, too many steps taken down this dusty road to turn around, and now their paths were splitting and neither one could tell which way would lead them home._

 

_“You followed me here!” the wizard called, over the howling wind that snatched his breath away.  “You gave me your love and your trust, you’ve walked at my side all these many miles…and now you will walk no further?”  He reached out across the place where the paths split, but he could not seem to find his Prince’s hand.  “My prince…will you not let me lead you home?”_

 

_“Oh, my love…” said the Prince, and his voice was but a whisper for in his land not even the wind would dare to push his words away.  The Prince took the Wizard’s hands in his, though he did not step across the splitting of the ways.  “My love, do you not see? You have not lead us here.  We have been driven.  You let Jealousy and Guilt and  Greed set whips into your skin and they have driven here like sheep into a canyon.”_

 

_“But my Prince, we are so nearly home!”_

 

_“We are,” the Prince agreed.  “And yet at the same time, we are not.  You have lost sight of home, my love, and I no longer have the strength to guide you.” He placed a kiss upon the Wizard’s forehead, and let go of his hands as the dust born upon the wind began to blind him.  “You must find another path, my love.  Another path to lead you home.”_

 

_The wind erased his footsteps as the Prince turned his back and walked away, and left the Wizard standing at the crossroads, all alone._

 

**_Next: The Wolf and the Wolfhound_ **


	2. The Wolf and the Wolfhound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing takes the edge off your relationship drama like having to explain it to an eight year old

_The Wizard was lost._

_The familiar road, the road he thought he knew, had twisted harsh and serpentine beneath his feet, betraying his senses and tripping at his steps.  The ever-narrowing path plunged beneath the eaves of the great forest at the edges of his Prince’s land, so serene and beautiful from high in his safe, warm tower...but beneath the canopy of black branches blocking out the sky, so dark and dangerous and somehow_ waiting…

 

_A freezing rain began to fall, dripping through thick dark leaves and soaking the skin of the exhausted traveler, and the path, once clear and smooth, became sucking mud, slowing his footsteps and dragging him down._

_Cold eyes watched him from the shadows at the edge of the road, predatory and waiting, a soft breath of movement as something shifted in the darkness beneath the trees, an unseen malice keeping pace with his weary steps and drawing closer every time he stumbled.  Too soon the cold would take its toll, too soon he’d no longer be able to continue and then the monsters in the dark would strike._

_The Wizard’s foot caught a root across the narrow road, now little more than a track amongst the looming trunks, and he stumbled and fell, the skin on his hands ripping as he fought to catch himself, cold mud sucking at his legs.  The Wizard raised himself to one knee, trembling, before he fell again and something snarled in the shadows.  Too exhausted to run, too slow and weakened to fight, he lashed out blindly at the snarling dark._

_The snarling dark went “_ yipe,” _and bit him._

_A very long moment later, the Wizard opened his eyes, and found himself nose to nose with two small fox pups, regarding him with wide, startled eyes.  The smaller cub whined and rubbed a paw across her nose where the Wizard’s wild blow had snuck her, while the other, a little taller and bolder, with bright blue eyes, bared her tiny fangs, tipped red with blood from the Wizard’s throbbing hand._

_The Wizard found himself wishing it was not forbidden for his kind to curse (for the words of a Wizard carry power, even when they are let slip, thoughtless, from an idle tongue.) He let himself be content to sigh, gather his robes about him once more and summon up the strength to stand._

_A rustle, a feeling of movement, silent footpads on the rocky road…and a blast of hot breath across the Wizard’s neck, wet and warm and rank with the smell of old blood and shattered bones._

_“I mislike trespassers,” hums a voice in his ear, nothing but words shaped from an animal’s growl.  “Especially those so discourteous as to frighten my daughters.”_

_Teeth gleamed in the fading light, a hairsbreadth from his throat, and the Wizard shut his eyes._

“I fucked up,” Jean moaned into his hands.  “I fucked up so hard.”

 

“My _God_ did you ever,” Reiner replied cheerfully, and handed him a beer. 

 

Jean glared, wrestling the cap off with the hem of his shirt.  “Would it _kill_ you to enjoy this just a _little_ less?”

 

“Quite possibly,” Reiner chuckled, flopping heavily onto the couch across from Jean.  “I’m sorry, I just never thought _you,_ of all people, would be the one to catch…fuckin’ _wedding fever.”_ Jean just went quiet, staring into his bottle, and Reiner leaned forward, expression softening.

 

“Marco’s pretty pissed, huh?”

 

“I don’t _know!”_ Jean exploded.  Reiner winced, glancing over his shoulder to the pink-and-yellow door at the top of the stairs.  “Sorry,” Jean muttered, embarrassed, and repeated himself quieter.  “I don’t know…he just _left._ Got up and walked out without saying a word…I’ve never seen him _do_ that before.”

 

Reiner frowned, slouching back against the couch cushions.  “That _doesn’t_ sound like him…he didn’t tell you where he went?”

 

Jean shrugged, fiddling with the sweating bottle in his hand, thumbnails scratching miserable little tracks through the wet paper label.  “I thought he might’ve come here.  Since him and Bertl are…y’know…”

 

He was cut off by a loud _bang_ and a pattering of feet on the stairs, followed by a tired voice sighing.

 

“ _Incoming…”_

Two diminutive blurs shot down the stairs, trailing giggles.  One disappeared behind the sofa Reiner was sprawled across, and the other looped the room and shot under Jean’s chair, making it jolt a few inches across the floor. 

 

“ _Wow.”_ Reiner said, looking at his watch as a very frazzled Bertholdt descended the stairs at a more dignified pace. “Seven minutes from bedtime to jailbreak.  New record.”

 

“ _Your turn,”_ Bertholdt muttered.  He collapsed onto the couch next to his husband and snagged the beer bottle out of his hand.  “Hi, Jean.”

 

“Hey.” 

 

“That’s a very giggly chair you’ve got there.”

 

“What could you _possibly_ be referring to?” Reiner said with a grin, ruffling his fingers through Bertholdt’s hair. 

 

“Surely the sounds of two little angels peacefully asleep,” Jean said, matching Reiner’s tone of wide-eyed innocence.  His chair giggled again.

 

Bertholdt grumbled under his breath, and ruined the effect by leaning into Reiner’s touch with a contented sigh a second later.

 

“It’s _too bad_ the girls are asleep,” Reiner commented, raising his voice theatrically. “If _only_ they were here…I think Uncle Jean could use a hug.”

 

There was thoughtful silence from the furniture as Jean hastily swallowed his most recent mouthful of beer.

 

“ _Uncle—oof!”_ his embarrassed protest was cut short by the combined weight of two six-year-olds landing in his lap in a one-two punch, and Jean found himself staring down into two comically serious pairs of eyes, one blue and one green.

 

“Why do you need a hug?” Hitch, the slightly taller and heavier of Reiner and Bertholdt’s adopted daughters, demanded, her knees digging into Jean’s stomach as he stretched to set his beer down out of harms way. 

 

“Happy hug or sad hug?” Annie chimed in, matching the intensity of her sister’s interrogative stare.

 

“I uh…uhm…” Jean stuttered, shooting Reiner a dirty look over their heads.  He just grinned and toasted Jean silently with the bottle he’d reclaimed from Bertholdt.  Jean heaved a sigh.

 

“I’m sad, a little, I guess…I made a mistake.  A pretty bad one…I hurt someone’s feelings bad.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“ _Oh.”_

_“_ Is that _all?”_ The girls exchanged a look of pure exasperation.

 

“ _All?”_ Jean spluttered.

 

Hitch made a little ‘tsk’ noise between her teeth, shaking her head.  “We do that all the _time._ You don’t have to get all dumb and sad about it.”

 

Annie shifted and leaned up on her knees so that they were practically nose to nose, and Jean found himself resisting the urge to lean nervously away from a 40 pound girl with little puppy barrettes in her hair.

 

“You said sorry, right?” she demanded.

 

Jean blinked at her. 

 

“Huh?”

 

_The Wizard was warm._

_The Wizard was warm, and dry._

_He was warm, and dry, and rather surprisingly uneaten, and even more surprisingly sitting cross-legged on the floor of a wolf’s den, with two little fox cubs fast asleep in his lap, black button noses tucked under bottlebrush tails._

_The great Wolf that was their guardian lay nearby, steam rising from his thick coat, the color of morning sunlight reflecting on a still pool._

_“I_ do _ask your forgiveness for frightening your family,” the Wizard said, inclining his head in a courtly bow as he stroked the sleeping foxes’ fur._

_The Wolf raised his head, and bowed in turn.  “Perhaps I should beg yours as well.  I was most swift in my rule that you were a trespasser, come to harm us.  It would have brought me great sorrow to harm a friend of my true love.”_

_The Wizard turned his head, watching the dark shape that sat now at the mouth of the deep, warm den, standing guard despite the driving rain.  This guardian of the strange little pack had been last to arrive on the darkened road at sundown, as the Wizard shut his eyes and despaired of ever returning to his home._

_“Hold, my love,” had come the soft voice, as teeth drew near to the Wizard’s neck…and the Wolf had whined contrition and stepped away.  “Do you not recognize this Wanderer, my love? This is no poacher come to do us harm.”_

_The Wizard had opened his eyes as the newcomer emerged from the darkened trees…and it was with shock, and no little joy, that he recognized the great black Wolfhound._

_The Hound had once lived at the Palace, near the Tower (near to home, for home was wherever the Wizard and his Prince could return to find the other waiting) and hunted alongside the Prince for many years, his companion beloved and faithful.  He had vanished, years ago, into the darkness of the enchanted trees, to a fate uncertain…until now._

_“My love for your Prince remains, and always shall,” he told the Wizard, his speech soft and courtly for a beast of such imposing stature.  “My loyalty and my friendship are his, and his are mine, I have never doubted.  But I found love, my friend, love worthy of leaving your Palace, and your Tower, where Wolves are nothing but a terror…a nightmare made flesh, though fearing death from a Wolf is to my mind as foolish as fearing death from a nightmare._

_“You must forgive my love for treating you with such mistrust…” the Hound’s flanks heaved with a heavy sigh.  “Neither he nor I could imagine a deeper hell than the loss of our children.”_

_“They needed a home, our girls,” the Wolf rumbled.  “They needed shelter, they needed protection…and_ we… _we needed their love.  We needed them more than words can ever tell.”  His hunter’s eyes were soft as he spoke, hearthlight gleaming on molten gold.  “There is no love as pure as the love of a child…in the face of it, all your magic is nothing but a spark beside the sun.”_

_  
“Jesus,”_ Reiner said, twenty minutes later, shaking his head.  “You’ve got the magic touch, Jean.  Don’t make any sudden movements.”

 

“ _Sudden_ movements implies the ability to _move,”_ Jean muttered.  “At least the lecture on the importance of ‘I’m sorry’ is over…” he paused and laughed softly, trying not to jar the girls too much. “Not that it wasn’t useful…”

 

Reiner chortled.  “Nothing takes the edge off relationship drama quite like having to explain it to an eight-year-old.”

 

Jean rolled his eyes in agreement. He shifted his shoulder, _very_ slowly, so that Annie’s tousled head slipped a little further down his chest and her chin was no longer digging into the hollow of his throat quite so much.  She mumbled sleepily, eyes scrunching and nose wrinkling, and he froze.  “ _What do I do?”_ he hissed.

 

“You stay right there and smile for the camera...”

 

“ _Beeerrt!”_ Jean whined. “ _I can’t feel my legs.”_

 

“Welcome to parenthood.” 

 

“I’m not a…’m not even _married_ yet…” Jean grumbled.  Bertl just grinned at him and took another picture.

 

Still, despite the various pointy joints digging into his flesh, and the numbness that was rapidly spreading to all his extremities…Jean had to admit to himself that having Reiner and Bertholdt’s girls asleep in his lap was…kinda nice.  Warm and fuzzy and relaxing, and just…nice. 

He’d never really considered himself a _kid_ kind of person (translation: small children, on the whole, terrified him) but he liked Hitch and Annie…He liked Reiner and Bertholdt’s family.

 

_A family,_ Jean thought, turning the concept around and around in his mind as Hitch shifted and mumbled into the crook of his arm.  _A family, my family…_ our _family…_ and on that thought, an image flashed behind his eyes of Marco, sitting like he was now, two little girls twined around him fast asleep…the imaginary Marco lifted his eyes and smiled at Jean, over the heads of the kids, _their_ kids, their _family_ and Jean squeezed his lids shut against the sudden burn of tears.

 

_Good luck making it as far as a family, dumbshit.  You couldn’t even make it to the_ wedding _without cocking everything up.  You couldn’t make it two weeks past the engagement…hell, you barely made it through_ that…

 

_…I miss Marco…_

“Hokay, bedtime take two,” Reiner said, standing with a groan.  He knelt next to Jean’s overloaded chair and gently gathered Annie into his arms, cupping a hand around the back of her head as she whined and squirmed.  “C’mon princess, I gotcha.”  It took him a minute more to get both girls tucked against his chest like they weighed nothing, and Reiner headed up the stairs to their bedroom.

 

“Five years,” Bertholdt, more to himself than to Jean.  “Five more years, if we’re _lucky,_ and then we’re gonna have a pair of little teenage _heartbreakers_ to handle…”

 

Jean huffed out a laugh and flopped back into the cushions, wincing as the blood started to tingle and sting its way back into his legs.

 

“So…” he looked up to see Bertholdt leaning towards him, elbows propped on his knees with a soft smile.  “You wanna talk about it?”

 

“ _Nnn…”_ the noncommittal noise was about the best he could do for an answer  “Not much to say, really.  I’m a fucking dumbshit, I pissed off Marco _bad_ even though I’m _still_ not sure what I did _…_ I thought he might’ve come here, since you two are…yknow…”  Bertholdt and Marco were practically lifelong friends; he’d been the one to introduce Marco to ‘this one lit major friend of Reiner’s who needs someone to be a nerd with,’ back in their early days of college.  “But he didn’t come to talk to you and he didn’t say anything to Sasha so now I don’t even know where he _is…”_ Jean trailed off miserably, picked up his now-lukewarm beer again, more for something to hold than for something to drink, and stared at the ripped up label without really seeing it.  Bertholdt didn’t push it, although Jean could still feel his soft, dark green eyes on his face.

 

“Why’d you and Reiner decide to get married?” he said eventually, somehow managing to both blurt and mumble at the same time.  Bertholdt raised his eyebrows, and then looked over at Reiner, who’d come quietly back down the stairs and was leaning against the doorframe, listening. 

 

“I uh…” Bertholdt shook his head and laughed ruefully.  “I dunno if I’d recommend the route we took.”

 

“Oh come on.” Jean sat forward, grinning in spite of himself.  “I _know_ the mileage you get out of that story is practically _endless.”_

 

“The teenagers with the bad attitudes _do_ look at church a little differently when they hear their pastor ran away to Vegas to get married,” Reiner grinned, collapsing next to Bertholdt on the sofa (which creaked under their combined weight) and nuzzling a kiss into his messy hair. 

 

“ _Reiiii…”_ Bertholdt rolled his eyes and slapped him off half-heartedly. 

 

“The minister said we were the _soberest_ couple he’d ever married,” he said with a soft laugh. 

 

“We were definitely soberer than _he_ was,” Reiner chuckled.  “Never in my life have I seen a man more profoundly stoned.”

 

“I ended up wearing a _yarmulke_ because I couldn’t convince him ‘Bertholdt’ wasn’t necessarily a jewish name.”

 

“You also ended up wearing a _veil_ cause—“

 

“ _Shut up right there, Reiner.”_

 

“ _Oh_ no.” Jean set the bottle in his hand down with a _thunk_ and leaned foreward, grinning hugely.  “You do _not_ get to drop that line and then leave me hanging.”  Bertholdt moaned.

 

“I ended up wearing a veil,” he said in a vaguely sing-song voice, staring up at the ceiling as Reiner dissolved into giggles. “Because Reverend Reefer had never married a gay couple before and he had no idea how to go through his schtick unless someone had a veil on.  We had to flip a coin to determine who the woman was.”

 

“And Bertl lost?”

 

“ _Lost?_ Ohhh no, he didn’t—“

 

“It was a _pretty veil,”_ Bertholdt mumbled into his hands, blushing to the tips of his ears, but when he raised his face again he was smiling. “Plus there’s a pretty decent-sized gulf between ‘sober’ and ‘drove from east Texas to Nevada without stopping to sleep.’”

 

“We were _loopy,”_ Reiner confirmed, nodding sagely.

 

“You _drove_ there? In one _night?”_ Jean stared at his friends.  He’d heard the story of their unconventional marriage before, but he’d never known their decision had been so... _sudden._ Reiner and Bertholdt exchanged a glance.

 

“It was a little crazy,” Bertholdt admitted.  “I mean, we’d talked about getting married before, back when legalization went national…y’know, right after we’d all graduated college, but the cons always outweighed the pros, until…”

 

“It was the girls,” Reiner said when Bertholdt hesitated.  “Y’know, the church holds donation drives from the foster programs around here, and Bertl came home one day talking about these two twin girls who were about to be separated, and as soon as I saw the look on his face I just _knew…_ and there’s a lot less red tape when you’re a married couple.  Bullshit though that may be…”

 

“I couldn’t visit him in the hospital,” Bertholdt said, almost inaudibly.  He’d pulled his feet up onto the couch, curled in on himself and hugging his knees.  His face was very still and very composed…bordering on blank.  “That summer Rei was in the psych ward for awhile, and I knew he needed me to be there but I couldn’t get in on my own and I…I was too scared to talk to his parents, after…” he trailed off, and Reiner looked down at the floor, muscles in his jaw flexing harshly as he clenched his teeth.  “Everyone back home jumped to the conclusion that when I went to seminary it meant I’d…I’d ‘turned straight…’ they were so _happy,_ I didn’t know what to do.  ‘ _Hiiii_ I heard your son just had a psychotic break, I’m his secret boyfriend oh yeah did I mention we’re both still _gay_ as _shit?’”_

 

Jean laughed, a little awkwardly.  “Sorry,” he mumbled.  “Downer subject…”

 

“It’s okay,” Bertholdt said with a smile.  “It worked out for the best in the end, didn’t it? I mean, it let us get away from home, come back out here after school.  Even if our families weren’t there for our wedding—“ he broke off as Reiner’s cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket.  Reiner pulled it out and glanced at the screen, and smiled.

 

“’Scuse me, Jean.  Baby.” He pecked Bertholdt on the top of the head and headed out the back door to the wide porch, answering the call as he walked.  “Hi, Mama, what’s the occasion?”

 

Bertholdt smiled softly.  “I guess your problems are pretty far removed from ours, eh?”

 

“Yeah, my parents love Marco…oh _shit.”_ Jean slapped a hand to his forehead.  “My parents fucking _love_ Marco what the hell am I going to tell them?”

 

Bertholdt raised his eyebrows, tipping his head to one side.  “You think this is that permanent?”

 

Jean shrugged, shrinking back into his chair, and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.  “I don’t _know…”_ he sighed, watching stars of color pop in the darkness behind his eyelids. “I hope I can patch shit up with Marco, if he’ll just talk to me…but…” he shook his head, face still buried in his hands.  “I’m starting to think it was a mistake, getting engaged in the first place.  I-I…” Jean’s voice wavered, and he swallowed hard.  “I don’t think I’d make much of a husband.”

 

“Why not?”  Jean looked up at that – Bertholdt sounded genuinely surprised.  “You’re loyal, you’re smart, you work your _ass_ off in grad school…you worry for _weeks_ if you see one of your friends _frowning,_ and I know for a fact my girls adore you—“

 

Jean’s face went straight back into his hands as the blush started to creep up his neck.  He was _terrible_ at accepting praise (which has always spurred Marco to lay the compliments on with a trowel, even _before_ they were dating, until Jean was blushing and squirming and incoherent with embarrassment.)  Bertholdt sighed.

 

“Listen, Jean,” he said, voice soft and serious.  “The Lord knows I’m not the best person to give _anyone_ marriage advice, but if I learned one thing…don’t decide to do something ‘cause you’re scared, alright?  Look at us…” he gestured around the warm, cluttered living room, the drawings on the dusty refrigerator and the door to the back porch where Reiner stood, laughing at something his mother had said over the phone.  “Reiner ‘n me…we were so scared of telling our families we were together that we ran halfway across a _continent,_ got married at 3 in the morning in a place where no one knew us from a tumbleweed.  A-and I don’t regret it, of _course_ I don’t, we never could’ve brought Hitch and Annie home without that marriage license but…” he hesitated, a shadow falling over his face.  “I hope to _God_ no one ever hurts my parents as bad as I did the day I told them I got married without them.  We were _so convinced_ we had to just do it alone, they’d never accept us…turns out the only reason we had to do it alone was we were too _damn_ scared to let them in.” 

 

Bertholdt gave Jean a crooked smile when he finally paused for breath, as Reiner slipped back inside.  “Don’t _you_ go assuming Marco doesn’t want you as a husband because _you_ don’t think you’re worth it.”

 

Jean swallowed hard around a very sudden, very solid lump in his throat.  “So uh…” he stopped and cleared some of the croak out of his voice.  “Your parents ended up being cool with it, huh?”

 

Reiner leaned over the back of the couch and twined his long arms around Bertholdt’s shoulder.  “Nothing breaks down a lifetime of internalized homophobia quite like the sentence ‘I’ve got two baby girls here and they need a granma,’” he said with a chuckle, and that made Jean smile.

 

Reiner wandered around the end of the couch and ruffled Jean’s hair hard enough to make a few vertebrae in his neck pop. 

 

“Don’t worry too much.  It’s only been, what, twelve hours?”  he smirked.  “C’mon Jean, you and I both know the only thing Marco’s worse at than getting mad is _staying_ mad.”

 

_When daylight dawned and the rain had faded, the Wolfhound led the Wizard back to the edge of the road through the forest._

_“You have an air of fear about you,” the Hound observed in his soft voice, as the Wizard looked on down the winding road._

_The Wizard sighed and fidgeted, but the words that left his tongue were honest ones.  “If I have an air of fear, my friend, then it is because I am frightened.”_

_“You are_ too _frightened,” said the Hound.  “Frightened of shadows, frightened of nightmares, frightened of everything you_ believe _will harm you and blind to that which truly_ will.  _Learn to look foreward without fear, Wanderer.”_

_The Wizard breathed in deeply and stepped foreward onto the road, and the Hound nodded and retreated, pausing beneath the eaves of his emerald forest home.  “Do you know now which path shall lead you home?”_

_The Wizard bowed his head, as though he meant to count the specks of dust upon his boots.  “I thank you for your hospitality, Wolfhound, and I will carry your wisdom with me, but…I do not know which path is truly mine.”_

_“Then there is nothing more I can offer you,” the Wolfhound said, and bowed his shaggy head.  “Walk on, Wanderer.  Do not fear the shadows on your heels.”_

**Next: The Mongoose and the Cobra**


	3. The Mongoose and the Cobra

**Chapter 3: The Mongoose and the Cobra**

_The Prince was_ not _lost._

_The Prince knew exactly where he was; he knew every track and trail of his land as though they were the veins beneath his skin.  The trade and traffic that traveled these roads was as integral to his being as the blood in his heart._

_He knew exactly where he was.  He knew how to get home, and he knew he was on_ precisely _the right road to get there._

_He just wasn’t sure who had put this big_ hole _in the middle of it._

_The Prince shifted ever so slightly, tree roots in the sheer dirt walls behind him digging into his back like blunted swords, kept his eyes on the eight foot cobra on the other side of the hole, and tried not to breath. His leg had twisted beneath him when he landed in the unexpected hole, and stretched out at rest the dull throb was a rasp grating at his nerves.  He dared not think what awaited him if he tried to stand._

_It was not long after dawn, and the deep cold shadows of night lingered yet beneath the high, wet walls of the Cobra’s deep pit.  The great snake watched him with cloudy eyes half lidded, still deep in the embrace of its early morning torpor, but honey-colored sunlight was dripping down the walls and already the Prince felt its warmth upon his head._

_Something nipped at the Prince’s hand where it rested on the ground, and he jerked it away with a great start, pain flaring in the leg he had injured and he bit hard on his tongue in an effort to make no noise.  A wave of sickly, sparkling stars rolled across his vision, and when they had cleared he found himself looking down at a small, brown creature perched on his knee, returning his gaze with bright round eyes set wide in a pointed face._

_The man and the Mongoose regarded each other in silence as the golden threshold of the dawn crept down into the Cobra’s pit.  The Mongoose cocked its head and chittered, baring teeth and small and sharp as needles, and the Prince quailed and pressed a finger to his lips._

_“It seems we share a predicament, my Lady,” the Prince whispered, loud as he dared when the whip-thin tip of the Cobra’s tail was beginning to twitch._

_“Do we indeed, my Prince?” replied the Mongoose, drawing herself up and combing the soft fur behind her ears in a manner most unhurried for a small rodent in the den of a snake._

_“You have no need to fear,” the Prince assured her, although doubt was beginning to creep into his mind as the little mongoose continued to groom.  “I do not intend to die here, and when I escape this pit I assure you, I shall bring you with me.  You shall be safe in my care.”_

_At that, the Mongoose fell off the Prince’s knee and landed on her back, raising a cloud of dust as she rolled back and forth, squeaking and snorting, pawing at her nose.  The Prince watched in alarm for several moments, until it occurred to him to wonder what sound a mongoose made when it laughed._

_“I am sure you intended to offer me a courtesy, my Prince,” the Mongoose chortled, regaining her feet and shaking the dust from her fine striped fur.  “But I do not believe our situations hold much in common.”  The sunlight spread across the floor of the pit, and the Cobra sighed and raised its head, reptilian eyes clearing and focusing cold and hard on the Prince’s face.  The little Mongoose purred and skipped across the floor to nuzzle at its great broad head.  “Unless of course,” she continued, addressing the prince again, “a giant recently fell from the sky and landed in_ your _home as well.”_

* * *

 

A part of Marco’s brain was trying to tell him he should feel guilty about taking off with the car and leaving Jean stranded…or at least cut off from the few places in their little college town he couldn’t walk to…for maybe a couple of days… _or longer,_ he thought, stubbornly trying to remind himself that he was _angry_ and determined to actually _stay_ that way for once.  So _there._

He flicked on the wipers and glared through the spitting rain, driving on autopilot while he seethed.  Screw weddings. Why were weddings a _thing?_ Why were they a _thing_ that had to _happen,_ especially to _him?_

If all he had, all he _ever_ had, was that one starlit moment, Jean’s arms around his shoulders while he whispered in his ear, _let’s get married…_ that would be _perfect._ That was all he needed, Jean’s voice making a promise only _he_ could hear, his breath and his arms and his word that they’d be together for the rest of their lives.

Instead he had this silver ring that didn’t quite fit right and made his finger itch, set with the tiny little seed diamond they couldn’t afford, and that gorgeous, tranquil, _happy_ moment was buried under planning and money stress and Jean’s belligerent insistence on making it _perfect_ ruining everything.

He hadn’t really known where he was going when he started driving, other than _somewhere else dang it,_ but after a couple thoughtless turns he realized he was heading for Ymir’s apartment, smack in the middle of campus town.  Not a bad idea, he decided.  Trust his instincts for once.  Plus, his half-sister was _way_ better at holding a grudge than he was.  She’d be delighted to get angry on his behalf.

It was early afternoon on a Sunday, so finding a parking spot near Ymir’s apartment was merely a nightmare, instead of utterly impossible.  Marco nudged his old Lincoln into a parallel parking spot about a block away and scampered through the rain, nearly tripping into an open manhole on the sidewalk in his haste.  (He never would’ve stumbled if Jean was with him…Jean didn’t get lost in the clouds and run on automatic, he always knew where his feet were planted and Marco had loved him for it…)

The anxiety that was never far away these days started to gnaw at his stomach as he ducked inside out of the rain and trudged up the steps to Ymir’s floor…maybe he should have called in advance, they might not even _be_ here, they might be here but busy…probably having sex and he was going to _ruin_ it, he probably should have…

…thought of this stuff _before_ he was standing right outside their door…

Marco took a deep breath, yelling internally at his uncooperative brain to shut the _heck_ up, and knocked.  _Well_ clearly no one home, this was a bad idea to start with he should just leave now before—

The door opened, and before Marco could make a break for it Ymir’s wife Christa was smiling her movie star smile at him, delicate fingers resting on the doorknob. 

“ _Marco!”_ she said, her expression one of entirely genuine, gracious delight.  “You haven’t come to visit in _ages! Please,_ come in, what’s the occasion?”

Marco looked down into her beautiful, welcoming smile, opened his mouth, and burst into tears. 

 

_“You are quite certain you are in no danger?” the Prince asked the Mongoose, who curled her warm body around the slowly rousing Cobra.  He was not at all certain of anything, including the wisdom of removing his back from the wall behind him._

_The Mongoose looked to be considering her answer, but before she could reply another voice spoke, soft and slick as rain falling through the leaves._

_“You_ Princes,” _said the Cobra.  “Leaders, warriors, call it what you will…I dislike your kind, no matter how caring.”  The great snake uncoiled slowly, raising her wide, speckled head slow and soft and smooth as her voice.  “You seem quite determined to carry out a daring rescue, for a man who tripped into a hole plain for all to see.” Her golden eyes pierced him, weaving back and forth before his face, long black tongue flicking out to taste his quickened breaths.  “Should you not be more concerned with who will rescue_ you—“

“ _That is_ quite _enough,” the Mongoose announced, and nipped the Cobra’s tail.  The great snake recoiled with a hiss that was_ almost _a whimper, ducking her head in apology.  “This is my home, good sir, and here I am more than safe.”_

_The Prince was well and truly lost.  “I apologize, my lady, but I do not understand.  How did two natural enemies come to share a burrow?”’_

_The Mongoose and the Cobra looked at him in deep confusion.  “But why should we be enemies?”_

_“I…I do not mean to offend, of course, but I have read all my life that mongooses kill cobras.”_

_The Mongoose climbed upon the Cobra’s coiled black tail and sat with her paws crossed on her stomach, regarding him with curiosity.  “What reason would I have to kill the creature who dug my burrow? Who keeps our walls packed strong and smooth and repairs them after every rain, who invited me to share her home when I had nowhere else to go?”_

_“Are creatures of your kind not prey to snakes? Cobras do not eat you?”_

_Now the Cobra cocked her head, twining the tip of her tail around the little mongoose in a gentle embrace.  “Why would I eat my warmth in the winter, who defends our home and keeps me warm when the snows set in and I dare not leave my burrow? Why would I eat the companion who shares my home and my life, when there is a forest full of birds’ eggs and rivers full of silver fish for both of us?_

_The Mongoose sighed and shook her head, stretching up to nuzzle her nose against the serpent’s before she hopped back across the ground to perch once more upon the Prince’s knee._

_“You walk with the command of a ruler, my Lord, and there is naught but kindness in your words,” she said, “But I fear your eyes have been in some way clouded…or if your eyes are clear, perhaps your heart.  Why else would you try so hard to see a battle, when there is love so clear before your eyes?”_

* * *

 

“I can’t _believe_ you had cheesecake on hand,” Marco mumbled, taking the plate Christa offered him and ducking his head.  Christa snorted, curling up on the other end of the couch with her own slice.

“We’ve had it in the freezer since you two got engaged,” she said, saluting him with her fork.  “Ymir said it was just a matter of time.  She’ll be up in a couple minutes, by the way, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“…forgot she’s on nights this week,” Marco admitted, embarrassed, rubbing a finger under his nose between bites of cake.  “I uh…wasn’t…I wasn’t really thinkin’ when I left.”

“I _noticed,”_ Christa said, but there was no bite to it.  The teakettle whistled in the kitchen and Marco looked up, ready to offer to get it, but Christa waved him back into his seat.  “Ymir’ll get it, stay put.”  Sure enough, there was the creak of a door opening and a series of sleepy thumps from the hall behind the kitchen. 

Marco sighed, envious.  Ymir and Christa had only been married about a year, but they just fit together so _perfectly._ Yin and yang.

“So.  Pre-wedding jitters?” Christa asked, setting down her cleaned plate. 

“Pre-wedding _something,_ ” Marco muttered.  “I don’t know _where_ the crazed event-planning monster came from, but I’m pretty sure it ate the guy I got engaged to.”

“Bleugh.” Christa shuddered sympathetically. “Not for all the tea in China, man.  I just threw it all at the wedding planner and ran screaming in the other direction.”

“Yeah…” Marco laughed weakly, and blew his nose.  “Guess I should just be grateful _we’re_ not national news, huh? _Soap Starlet Weds Lesbian Bodyguard…”_ Christa was a longtime stage actress who’d accidentally hit it big in TV when a guest star roll became a breakout character, and Ymir had been the local set security hastily upgraded to personal security in the wake of the popularity.

“Fuckin’ _tell_ me about it,” Marco’s Emmy-nominated _TV-Guide_ Covergirl sister-in-law said, stretching out her sweatpants-covered legs over the threadbare arm of a plaid sofa Marco and Ymir’s mother had given them as a wedding gift.  “So Jean went groomzilla huh?”

Marco opened his mouth, but before he could answer a huge weight flopped over his shoulders, driving the air from his lungs.

“ _Dear_ baby brother,” Ymir drawled in his ear, twining her arms around his neck in a fashion that progressed rapidly from hug to headlock.  “Please do tell me why I woke up to a dozen texts messages from Kirstein asking if I know where you are? I thought keeping track of you was _his_ job now.”

Marco gulped.  “Uhm.  Y-eah…we…we had a little bit of a fight…”

Ymir hopped over the back of the couch and crashed onto the cushions between her brother and her wife, without ever releasing his neck from her grip.  “A _fight_ fight _,_ or a _Marco-mumbling-awkwardly-and-then-running-away-at-the-first-sign-of-a_ fight?”

“U-hh…ha-ha…”

Ymir rolled her eyes.  “ _Yeah,_ that’s what I thought.  Just got up and left, didn’t you?”

“You just _left?”_ Christa sat bolt upright, leaning around Ymir so she could stare incredulously at Marco.  “I figured you were cooling off…you didn’t even _talk_ to him?”  She scraped a hand through her hair, leaving strands sticking up at all angles, and sat back to stare up at Ymir.  “Where would _I_ be if I ran away every time we butted heads over something?”

“Argentina?”

“At _least,”_ Christa grumbled.  “Oh you _poor baby,_ he’s not _always exactly the perfect person_ you fell in love with, it’s almost like people have _emotions_ some times.  Like a relationship is something you actually have to _work_ for, not a magical _prize that drops in your lap—“_

“Deep breaths, baby,” Ymir said, chuckling, when Christa finally ran out of air.  “Don’t worry about her,” she said to her cowering brother, ruffling his hair.  “She’s played the girl the guy gets at the end of the story a few too many times.”

“ _Happily ever after does_ not _just_ happen,” Christa muttered under her breath.

“ _Baby.”_

“Yeah, yeah, okay.  _Sorry,_ Marco.  Berserk button, y’know?”

“I noticed,” Marco squeaked.  Christa smiled apologetically, reaching for his abandoned plate. 

“More cheesecake?”

“I just got _scared,_ y’know?” Marco said to Ymir, as Christa grabbed both plates and disappeared into the kitchen.  “You know how Jean gets when he latches onto an idea…there’s no _talkin’_ to him.  I _tried, I really did!”_ He protested.  Ymir just arched an eyebrow.  “…a little.  We’re just so _different,_ sometimes…it’s hard to see how we’ll ever…” his voice hitched around the sudden lump in his throat, and he broke off and swallowed hard.  Ymir squeezed his shoulders.

“How do _you_ two make it work?” Marco exploded, once he’d gotten his voice back under his control.  “You’re like…night and day, it seems like, _I_ don’t know…”  he trailed off as both women stared at him, Ymir next to him on the couch and Christa in the doorway with more cheesecake in hand.  They exchanged a baffled glance.

“Are we?”

“ _I_ never thought so.”

“I _was_ different, when we met,” Christa said, coming back into the living room and leaning over to kiss Ymir on the forehead.  “You were the first person for _years_ who didn’t expect me to be…y’know, _on_ all the time.  24/7 perfect Princess Historia…” she grimaced at the name of her character from the TV show. 

“Your own personal bullshit-free zone,” Ymir giggled, reaching up to grab Christa around the waist and haul her into her lap. 

“’xactly.” Christa barely managed to get the cheesecake to safety before giving in and snuggling into her wife’s embrace.  “Stop obsessing about all the reasons you _won’t_ work and find the reasons you _will,_ y’know?”

Marco shrugged awkwardly, staring at the floor.  “Kinda hard to find those some days,” he whispered. Christa rolled her eyes.

“When you first got here you spent twenty minutes crying into your cheesecake about how you almost fell into a hole and died on your way upstairs and how Jean wouldn’t have let you fall into a hole and if you _did_ fall in he’d jump down there with you and…what was it, use his glasses to dig you both a tunnel to freedom?”

“ _It was a vulnerable moment!”_ Marco yelled over Ymir’s cackling laughter, blushing furiously.  “I dunno, I’m just so… _lost_ around him lately.  I can’t figure out why he’s so determined that we gotta have the…the wedding to end all fuckin’ weddings.”

“He loves you,” Ymir said softly.

“I mean he _knows_ I hate crowds and we’re tight on money and neither of us really go in for…huh?”

“He _loves_ you,” Ymir repeated, punching Marco hard in the arm.  “And he doesn’t think he deserves you.  Don’t you get it, moron? He’s trying to _earn_ you.  Earn the right to be your husband.”

Marco blinked at her, mouthing like a goldfish, before he managed to blurt out “ _He doesn’t have to earn me!”_

“Did ya tell _him_ that?”

Marco stared at his sister for a long, silent moment, eyes starting to sting again, and then swore viciously and scrabbled for his cell phone.

“ _Easy_ there baby brother.”  Ymir caught his wrist.  “You need some more time and more cheesecake before you go calling him.  Stay here tonight, there’s some new fancy Phantom of the Opera thing on Netflix.”

Marco opened his mouth to protest, and then sighed, gnawing on his lip.  “Yeah…you’re right.  I’ll call him in the morning.  But…uh…let him know I’m here?”

“’Course,” Ymir said, disentangling herself from Christa and standing up.  “I’m gonna go find us some real food before my shift starts.”

* * *

 

She left her brother to Christa’s care and slipped out onto the stairs, pulling her phone out of her pocket, and smirked at the screen.

_From: Bertl_

_How’s your half of the idiot couple?_

_To: Bertl_

_Slightly less idiotic than when he got here_

_From: Bertl_

_Best that can be said for ours too._

_From: Bertl_

_They’re gonna be ok, right?_

_To: Bertl_

_‘Course they are.  Only person who’s ever doubted it is THEM._

* * *

 

_“Which road did the other take?” The Cobra asked the Wolfhound, resting her chin upon the tip of her coiled up tail._

_“He has yet to leave the forest,” the Wolfhound replied with a heavy sigh, swatting at a fly with his tail.  “He still believes himself lost.”_

_“The Prince has finally begun to suspect that he_ is _lost,” the Cobra said, with a shake of her head.  “They both have far to travel yet, I fear.”_

_Together the serpent and the hound sat together upon the mountain peak, in the light of the lowering sun, watching two figures far away toil along their paths, somehow walking together and still so far apart._

_“They will endure,” the Wolfhound said, with quiet certainty._

_The Cobra smiled a secret serpent’s smile, and cast her eyes skyward, where a dark shape wheeled far above even their lofty mountain perch.  Black wings beat against the sun, and a dark shadow fell across the wandering Wizard, far below._

_“They will endure,” she agreed.  “But I am glad to know they will have help.”_

**Next: The Dragon and the Knight**


	4. The Dragon and the Knight

_In his heart of hearts, the Wizard did not name himself a wizard, no matter his lofty titles.  Oh, he had the talents of magic, and they were not inconsiderable, but that was merely a practice.  A job description, not a way of life.  Not a philosophy of being._

_He was a_ scholar, _a man of letters.  A seeker of wisdom, who gathered all knowledge he could find and gave it back changed and born anew. His Prince’s kingdom was his subject, his calling, his grand mystery to be solved…the kingdom was his first love, in some ways one and the same (in the Wizard’s heart) with the man he loved so dearly.  He_ knew _this land, its roads and rivers as much a part of him as the veins and nerves beneath his skin, its mountains and forests features upon the face of the land he had given his himself to, heart and soul, all raw beauty and power and vastness that lit a fire in his blood—_

_The Wizard tripped over a rock and landed on his face in the mud.  A philosopher to the core, he carefully considered the relative merits of standing up again and continuing on his journey, and then elected to just lie there for a while.  It was far easier to be enamored of the wild and untamed beauty of a mountain, he reflected, when you weren’t trying to_ climb _the damn thing._

_It had seemed like such a wise decision, after endless hours of following the winding track that only seemed to dive deeper into the depths of the forest.  The path he walked had split, and down one branch the ground began to rise, climbing up above the dark roof of the forest, and he realized he must have found his way to the base of the Dragon’s Roost, a tall and lonely spire of rock, an island rising above the ocean of the trees.  And after all, the Wizard_ knew _this land (or thought he did) its roads and rivers as much a part of him as the veins and nerves…although now that he came to reflect upon it (with the stirred-up mud beginning to dry around his body) his veins and nerves were really little more than a vague image in his mind, some sort of complex spiderweb he’d seen on a chart once, a few years ago.  All he really_ knew _about his veins and nerves was that they were_ there.  _And…important. Somehow. They must be important, musn’t they…?_

_But he really_ did _know the kingdom, that was what mattered.  He had studied its maps and lands for years._

_“Surely,” the Wizard said to himself, picking his tired limbs up off the road, “_ surely _if I can only get high enough…”_

_A shadow flickered over the sun – just a wisp of fast-moving cloud, he supposed, but a welcome relief, however brief, from the beating noonday sun. He’d climbed so high now, far above the trees, and yet the view below him seemed no clearer.  Just an endless quilt of brown and green, and the narrow track he struggled to follow just wound on and on, higher and higher up the steep face of the Dragon’s Roost._

_“If I can just get high enough,” the Wizard mumbled doggedly, “if I can just get high enough, surely it will all be clear.  As clear as the charts on my walls.  I’ll know my way home, and all will be well again.  He’ll be waiting for me, if I can just get high enough.”_

_Another shadow flickered by, and this time it gave the Wizard some cause to hesitate, peering up at the cloudless sky.  What could flicker past at such speed, come and go like a wheeling songbird, yet cast a shadow wide as a drifting cloud?_

_A question for another day, the Wizard supposed, and with a sigh he turned back up the road and began again his weary trek._

_“I suppose I should be quite glad,” he murmured to himself, “that the Dragon of the Dragon’s Roost is so long dead and buried.”  He wiped away the sweat already beading on his brow and stared up the steep trail.  “If I can just get high enough…”_

_A third time the light of the pounding sun went dim…and claws scored a hold in the Wizard’s robe, and quite suddenly he was whisked off the rocky mountainside, his mudstained boots treading uselessly on empty air._

_“Dead and buried, am I?” a voice growled in his ear, rough as cracked stone and charcoal smoke.  “No one told_ me.”

_Great leather wings beat the air, and the Wizard’s felt as though his stomach was trailing several feet behind his head as the ground dropped further away._

_“Do let me be of service to you, little trespasser.  How high would you like to go?”_

Jean Kirstein was, in many ways, an authority in his field.  He had a master’s degree in psychology.  He was more than halfway to a Ph.D on the intersection of folklore and societal psychology.  He had a handful of publications, a book chapter, and more conference presentations than he could count to his name.  And, perhaps most importantly for a philosopher and a scholar of classical literature, he had absolutely _mastered_ the art of pretending he liked beer.

Of course, he often forgot (and was unpleasantly reminded, usually on miserably cold wet nights like this one) that what a pale squishy armchair-philosopher type like him called beer, a guy like Reiner would charitably call _second hand wheatgrass juice,_ and he was fairly certain that the sidewalk was trying to buck him off. 

He’d stayed longer than he meant to (once Bertl had confirmed for him that Ymir had a moody but functioning Marco in her possession and would keep it fed on cheesecake for the foreseeable future) and drunk a little more than he should have (once the girls were in bed and Reiner clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make his ears ring and announced they were now playing Smash Bros for _real.)_

The good news was that it’s essentially impossible to get lost between Reiner and Bertl’s house and their apartment over Levi’s bookstore, even in the black cloudy night and the blowing rain.  The _bad_ news was that it’s essentially impossible to get lost because it’s uphill all the way, in the black cloudy night and the blowing rain. 

“’Oh _God_ no, you don’t have to drive me, it’s like four blocks,’” Jean muttered to himself, trying to shrug down inside his jacket collar like a cold drunk turtle.  “’It’s barely even raining, I’ll just walk…’ why am I _so dumb…_ and so out of shape…” His leg were already starting to burn from dragging himself up the steep slope, and the rain was coming down harder by the second.  But he’d come this far, it would be longer to turn around and go back to Reiner and Bertholdt’s place…he was pretty sure…

His phone buzzed in his back pocket, and Jean jumped a foot, stumbling into a puddle with a miserable splash and flooding his battered sneakers.  He fumbled it out, wincing at the rain-water already beading on the screen, and glared at the little flashing calendar notification.  It was already midnight (no _wonder_ he was so damn cold), already Sunday, and his phone had awoken to cheerfully remind him of a slew of…wedding deadlines…

Jean moaned and squeezed his eyes shut, sniffling as his nose began to run.  He’d promised Sasha they’d have menu decisions made, so she could contact her suppliers.  He was supposed to get in touch with a local vineyard before the end of the weekend, because local wines had sounded like such an _awesome_ idea twelve hours ago and it wasn’t even _that_ much more expensive than a plain old bar, seriously Marco stop worrying all the time.  Tapping the calendar brought up his whole list, little phone-screen post-its he’d been assembling for weeks now, food, wine, music flowers wedding party décor and Jean hammered his damp phone’s power button until the screen blooped into blessed darkness and he felt a little less like he was about to throw up.

He just stood there for a while, staring at his blank phone as rainwater dripped out of his hair and into his eyes...most of the places he needed to call would be open in a few hours and he’d have the option of just cancelling _everything_ and pretending the last few weeks never happened, Marco would magically materialize back in their apartment in his usual nest of books and everything would be _fine_ again.

This part of town didn’t have much traffic at the busiest of times, and after midnight the streets would normally be all but deserted...and nevertheless there were headlights, speeding up the bottom of the hill and throwing Jean’s shadow out across the sidewalk, dark and spindly and distorted. 

Jean jolted back to reality, shoved his phone in his pocket and hopped away from the curb, bracing for the inevitable wave of gutter water. 

Instead, he was greeted by a crunch of breaks as a primer-gray Mini-cooper pulled over to the curb, and the driver’s window rolled down.

“Planning to audition for the Exorcist remake?” Levi asked, flicking his deadpan eyes up to the wrought-iron lamp post over Jean’s head.

“I…uh…yeah, hah…my phone…”

Jean’s landlord rolled his eyes, and the Mini-cooper’s doors unlocked with a _clunk._ “You could never pull off that hat,” Levi muttered.  “Get in before you melt.”

 

_“You’re hardly worth the trouble of eating,” the Dragon droned, while the Wizard shut his eyes tight and tried not to exist.  “But since you did me the courtesy of climbing all that way on your own, I suppose it would be remiss of me not to kill you in person.”  It seemed to think for a moment, vast black wings sweeping down in another beat that sent dust-devils whirling across the sharp rocks below.  “And it is likely you are lighter than the rock I would have dropped on your head.”_

_“Hnk,” the Wizard replied, willing the fabric of his robes not to rip as he dangled from the Dragon’s claws.  It flew in a wide, gradual spiral, climbing ever higher around the towering pillar of rock that had once been known as the Dragon’s Nest, before the dragon had been slain._

_Or so they said._

_“But I must take you to my lair first, I do suppose,” the Dragon continued.  It breathed a heavy sigh, twin plumes of smoke puffing from its flared nostrils and rolling back along its head, and stinging the Wizard’s already-raw throat before the drafts of its sweeping wings swept its smoke away.  “You are much too muddy to eat.”  It dropped its head, twisting around on a neck smooth and sinuous as a serpent’s, to gaze at the dangling Wizard with disdainful eyes the color of stormclouds.  “And you smell of dog.”_

_“…wlf…”_

_“I beg your pardon? You may be a meal, but please speak clearly.”_

_“Wolf!” The Wizard managed to squeak, despite the rushing air of flight stripping the breath from his lungs.  “I smell of Wolf! I spent the night in his den in the Deep Forest! Which is why I smell like him!”_

_The Dragon twisted its neck still further, until its smoking nostrils nearly nudged the Wizard’s face.  “I will know if you lie,” it rumbled, and flicked a wing to spin them around a jagged outcrop without turning its head to watch the path of their flight._

_“It is no lie!” The Wizard protested, staring at the tiny flames that flickered deep within the Dragon’s nostrils, and in the depths of its stony eyes.  “Upon my magic, my honor, and the honor of the Prince of this land, who has pledged to me his love and his life as I have pledged him mine, it is no lie!”_

_The Dragon stared at him one minute more, tilting its scaly head as it considered the Wizard’s words._

_Then it dropped him._

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Levi said, flicking the windshield wipers back into high gear as Jean dripped miserably in the passenger seat, “but I have a suspicion that finding you standing around in the rain at midnight is in some way related to the veritable _symphony_ of door slamming we were treated to this afternoon.”

Jean opened his mouth and sneezed explosively; Levi apparently took it as a confirmation. 

“Honeymoon over already, is it?”

“ _Honeymoon?! We didn’t even make it to the…_ aauughhh….” Jean’s explosion trailed off in an exasperated mumble and he slumped down in his seat, pulling his knees up to his chest in the confines of the tiny car.  Levi smirked faintly, not taking his eyes off the road.  “Why’s everyone in such a _hurry?”_ Jean grumbled.  “Rei and Bertl already had me raising goddamn _kids,_ you have us honeymooning…we barely survived picking a date…”

“Past tense already, eh?” Levi flicked his blinker and pulled into the alley behind the old bookshop-slash-apartment building, the brief conversation having eaten up the rest of the three-minute drive.  Jean grunted and looked away.

“Why were _you_ out at midnight in this shit, anyway? Mister only-the-uncivilized-stay-awake-past-9.”

“And I shall be wide awake and getting things accomplished while you’re working on your Ph.D. in sloth,” Levi replied mildly.  “But this was a mission of mercy.”  He fished around in the center console and came up holding a stapled paper bag stamped with the blue Walgreens logo, and Jean winced.  Levi sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. 

“Wipe that look off your face and come inside, kid.  Erwin’ll have coffee made by now.”

Levi’s husband was waiting on the landing outside their apartment, a floor down from the lofty attic Jean and Marco shared.  He was jittering from foot to foot with some kind of nervous energy at odds with the composure Jean was used to, but the tension in his handsome face seemed to relax when Levi came through the door. 

“I have returned,” he declared, lips twisting in a slightly softer version of his usual sardonic smirk, and he tilted his face up to Erwin’s for a kiss, slipping the prescription bag into his hand as the taller man leaned down.  He wobbled a little as he straightened up, and Levi’s hands flew out automatically to steady him, one on Erwin’s left elbow and the other on his right shoulder, just above the stump where his right arm ended.

 “I picked up some kind of half drowned squirrel-kitten hybrid,” Levi said, once Erwin was steady again, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Jean.  “Can we spare some coffee to revive it?”

Erwin looked over Levi’s head and blinked at Jean, dripping awkwardly in the foyer.

“Is the Flying Dutchman in town?” he asked.

“I’ll just…I’ll uhm I’m wet I’ll go stop doing that now,” Jean stuttered, edging towards the stairs.  Loath though he was to admit it, Erwin intimidated the hell out of him, for no real reason other than the fact that he often seemed to be everything Jean _wasn’t._

Levi caught him with a hand on his shoulder before he could make his dive for safety.  “Come back down, okay? Drink something warm and sober up a little.”

Jean rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy…he was no good at being social without Marco there to act as his buffer.  “You don’t have to do that…”

“I know,” Levi said simply.  He squeezed Jean’s shoulder, waiting until the younger man reluctantly met his eyes.  “But I promised your mom I’d look out for you.  And if I left you on your own after I found you standing out in the rain lookin’ pathetic…I’d be doing one _hell_ of a job at that, eh?”

“Yeah…” Jean shivered, hard, as the chill from his soaked clothes worked through to his bones.  Coffee _did_ sound good, no denying.  “I’ll go get changed…Thanks, Levi.”

“Don’t thank me,” Levi waved him off with a roll of his eyes.  “Or if you _have_ to thank me, do it by letting someone _in_ once in a while.”

 

_It was only the sudden rush of air that kept the Wizard from shrieking aloud, the wind roaring around him shoving the sound right back down his throat as he plummeted…no more than four feet, through a thick wisp of cloud clinging to the mountain, and landed with a bone-rattling_ crash _in a dead thorn bush rooted to the damp, cold stone._

_“I rather liked that bush,” the Dragon remarked with a sigh, his great black bulk dipping through the low clouds and settling on the rocks with weightless grace._   _“How discourteous of you to land upon it.”_

_“It was_ not—“ _the Wizard protested, extracting himself from long black thorns, “what I would describe as a_ conscious _decision.”_

_“_ Tch,” _sighed the Dragon, flicking a long black tongue against its ivory teeth.  “Well, graceful or not you_ have _landed.  You may as well come inside.”_

_The Wizard turned, and realized for the first time that the Dragon had dropped him at the mouth of a cave set deep into the sheer, worn stone.  The tunnel trailed away into the darkness, worn smooth by years of the Dragon’s passage, but lights burned down in the depths, bright and warm and…almost welcoming._

_“Does this mean you have decided to let me live?” The Wizard enquired cautiously, edging closer to the cave mouth.  The Dragon regarded him slowly, blinking wide, cool eyes._

_“I merely said, did I not, that you are far too muddy to eat at the moment.”  It shuffled past the Wizard and made its way down the tunnel into its cave…and it had to be said that a Dragon on the ground was a very different creature than a Dragon in the air._

_In flight, the great black beast was all beauty and power, a shadow made flesh, skating through the air like a storm cloud driven on a mission, silent and deadly.  On the ground, it stumped heavily along on four flat feet with claws that often slipped and scrabbled on smooth mountain stone, and its beautiful, graceful wings, when folded, resembled two heaps of wrinkled, weathered leather with tips that dragged on the ground.  The smell was likewise difficult to escape without the rush of the wind sweeping it away: sulfur and brimstone and an acrid odor rather like someone had attempted to set a wet leather coat alight, and as the terror of his impromptu flying lesson faded the Wizard found himself swallowing a laugh._

_The tip of a serpentine tail flicked through the air and clipped the Wizard across the ear, sending him stumbling into the close walls of the tunnel._

_“I did not laugh at_ your _attempt to fly, little Wizard,” the Dragon rumbled._

_“Did you not?” the Wizard risked a smile in the dark as he found his feet again._

_“Well.” There was a shuffling, skittering, as though the Dragon was shifting foot to foot.  “Not aloud at least.”_

_The Wizard laughed softly, following the Dragon deeper.  The Dragon’s wings shifted across its back as it walked, and as the light at the end of the long stone corridor brightened, the Wizard found his eyes caught by a lattice of long white lines that marked the Dragon’s back…sword scars, every one, deep painful rents through shining scales, and they pulled and stretched with every step, soft vulnerable places where strong black scales would never grow again.  His breath caught on a soft gasp, and the Dragon looked over its shoulder, eyes glinting in the dim light._

_Their eyes met, only for a moment, and this time it was the Dragon who looked away, wing twitching up to cover the spiderweb of scars._

_“Have you returned already?” called a voice within the cave, and the Wizard stopped in his tracks.  He had been surprised enough by_ one _dragon, surely the mountain couldn’t hide a_ second—

_The dragon raised its head and trotted out of the tunnel into its lair, claws clicking on the stone, and the Wizard felt his jaw drop open. It was no dragon waiting to greet his captor._

_It was a_ man.

_“I thought you would be much longer hunting,” the man said. His voice was low and sweet as honey, and he reached up with one elegant hand to rub at the ridges behind the Dragon’s eyes.  It made a low noise, almost like a purr, dipping its head into the caress, and the blue-eyed man smiled softly and leaned his weight on its head.  “Were you able to find food? Now that all the deer have moved—oh no.”  His glowing eyes fell on the shocked Wizards, still standing in the cave-mouth, and he leveled an icy glare at the Dragon._

_“You can’t eat him.”_

_“Of_ course _I can’t, not while he’s covered in_ mud—“

_“I know you,” the Wizard whispered, and they both fell silent.  The man who shared the Dragon’s lair closed his eyes and let his head fall back, an exhausted sigh slipping between his parted lips._

_“You were the greatest warrior this kingdom has ever known.  A hero.  A Knight in shining armor, who sought out the darkest places of the world and made them light again.”_

_“Was I indeed,” the Knight said softly, without opening his eyes, and the Dragon whined with concern, nudging its…no,_ his _head against the Knight’s hand._

_“They said the Dragon slew you,” the Wizard said.  “That you came to the spire in the forest to face the Dragon, and never returned.  They said you felled each other.”_

_“Aye, they say that,” the Dragon agreed.  “And it is not entirely a lie, is it?  My love.”_

_The Knight laughed at that, though there was little humor in it.  “Not entirely a lie.” His bright eyes swept over the Wizard from head to toe.  “You have the look of a scholar about you, Wanderer.  Perhaps you would struggle to understand.”  He turned his body slightly and shrugged, so that his rough brown cloak fell back off his shoulders.  The Wizard bit his lip at the sight._

_“When you have called yourself a Warrior for too many years, fought too many battles all your life…there comes a time when the only being who can understand you is the enemy who’s fought the same battles.”  The Knight sighed and leaned his arm upon the Dragon’s back, gently tracing his hand over the deep white scars…his_ only _hand, for his right arm ended just below the shoulder._

_“The Enemy who carries the same scars.”_

 

“So you’re a little bit short of the bundle price on printing now, right?  Find out what they’ve got for thank-you cards and just get something…y’know, generic-but-pretty.  It’s not like they’ll go bad before you use them, and it takes…what, eight percent off the rest of the order?”

“Holy shit.” Jean fisted his hands in his damp hair.  “Holy _shit,_ Levi, you’re a genius.  Why the hell didn’t _we_ think of that?”

“’Cause you haven’t spent nine years terrifying discounts out of print shops, probably,” Erwin yelled from the kitchen, followed by the bubbly hiss of a cappuccino maker foaming milk.  (It was digital, restaurant-quality, stainless steel, and took up half their kitchen counter.  Levi referred to it as a quality-of-life investment.) 

Levi grinned lazily, dangling his bare feet over the arm of his cushy chair.  “Drop my name,” he drawled, twirling a long black vapor cigarette between his fingers.  “Discount might get a little bigger.”  He rolled his head to the side and gave Jean a long, critical once-over.  “Sobered up yet, kid? Or do I need to go dangle you off the balcony by your ankles for a bit?”

“I wasn’t _that_ drunk,” Jean grumbled.  Levi just grinned around the cigarette between his teeth, and blew a cloud of smoke out towards the brick ceiling of the warm, cave-like room.

Jean had known Levi since he was a teenager, but he never quite got used to seeing him…relaxed like this, seeing him let go of the tightly buttoned up image he presented to the outside world.  He’d shed so many layers, just wearing a soft v-necked t-shirt…and without the high collars and scarfs he was rarely without, the jagged scars that ran over his shoulders and up one side of his neck were clearly visible, rough bands of scar tissue that flexed and pulled every time he turned his head.

“You had _better_ not be smoking again,” Erwin said from the doorway.  He’d steadied himself against the doorjamb, fingers of his left hand threaded through the handles of two steaming mugs. 

“’S vapor. Doesn’t count,” Levi said, as Erwin set down both mugs easily and nudged his husband over enough to make room.  Levi scooted further back against the arm of the loveseat he’d been sprawled across and draped his legs over Erwin’s lap.  “Feelin’ the tranquilizers yet?” he asked softly. 

Erwin smiled and held out his hand, fingers spread.  “Shaking’s stopped already.  They’ll kick in soon.”

Jean knew some of the story, but not all of it…he knew Erwin had been in Iraq, around the time the Persian Gulf turned ugly, that Levi had been there too, when a roadside bomb cost Erwin his right arm and draconian, outdated conduct laws long since repealed cost him any chance of a military pension.  Knew Levi had utterly refused to rent out the attic apartment above the bookstore until it was to a tenant who could absolutely _promise_ no loud noises, and knew that sometimes even the silence in this sleepy part of town wasn’t enough for either of them.

And he knew they hadn’t always been fighting for the same thing.

 

Levi sighed and closed his eyes, crow’s feet at the corners deepening for an instant, and laced their fingers together, leaning into his husband’s shoulder.  Jean found himself just watching the silent little moment, before his fuzzy brain kicked into gear and he realized he should probably look away.

Unfortunately, that left him staring at his phone calendar again.  Even with Levi’s help on printing costs…Marco was right.  This was a _lot_ of money…and for what? And despite the warmth and the cozy surroundings and the warm mug of coffee in his free hand, Jean found himself mentally slipping back into the pitch black and the freezing rain, and the empty, overwhelmed frustration… _maybe we should just shut it down…_

“Shut what down?” Erwin said, and Jean realized with an embarrassed, fuzzy start, that he’d been musing aloud.

“This damn _wedding,”_ he groaned, waving his cluttered phone through the air.  “It just feels so _pointless…”_ the two older men looked at each other and Erwin raised his eyebrows, but Jean was too wrapped up in his rant to notice.  “I’ve been buried in this shit so long I can’t even remember why I _wanted_ a wedding in the first place…what do we need _marriage_ for? Why can’t we just keep being us…getting married is just…just worthless and ceremonial and hollow and—“

“Legal?” Erwin said.  It was barely more than a whisper, but it cut straight through Jean’s ranting and froze him solid.

Ten years, he realized…they would have waited ten years, from the time they fell in love until the time that two men _being_ in love stopped being a crime in their country.

“I…I shit, I’m sorry, I forgot—“

“Lucky you,” Levi said cooly.  Jean bit his lip, eyes stinging, and Erwin rolled his eyes and flicked Levi’s ear.

“It _isn’t_ for everyone, sure,” Erwin said with a one-shouldered shrug.  “That’s gotta be your call to make…and Marco’s.  But…”

“Don’t call it meaningless until you’ve had it taken from you,” Levi said flatly, and his knuckles washed out white as he squeezed Erwin’s hand in his. 

Jean just stared at the floor, throat tight with misery and guilt, and Levi’s expression softened.

“Go to bed, kid.  Aren’t you leaving for some conference tomorrow?”

Jean groaned.  He’d honestly forgotten.  “Yup. Yup, I am.”

“Tell you what,” Levi said as he walked Jean out onto the landing.  “Give me your order, I’ll call the print shop tomorrow.  I might be able to lump you two in with some stuff for the bookstore.”  He smirked faintly.  “Unless you’re still gonna _shut it down…”_

Jean heaved a theatrical sigh.  “I’ve made it this far.”

“Yeah, sometimes you gotta jump off the cliff to find out the ground’s only four feet down,” Levi squeezed his shoulder and shook him gently.  “Sometimes someone’s gotta drop ya…”

Jean laughed, scraping a hand through his hair and leaving it sticking up at all angles.  “Levi…listen, I really _am_ sorry—“

Levi just shook his head, cutting off his apology.  “You’re too sweet for your own damn good, kid.  That’s your problem.” He stretched up, just a little, tugged Jean down by his collar and brushed his lips against his forehead, a quick little touch like a blessing.  “Don’t lose that…don’t _ever_ lose it.”

Back in his apartment, Jean took out his phone and turned it back on, and just stared at the faintly glowing screen for a while.  Just past 3 in the morning...

Marco, much like Levi, hated staying up much past ten.  He’d always been happy to cede the late nights to Jean and his silence and his books, sometimes curled up beside him with his head in Jean’s lap, until Jean’s shifting annoyed him awake and he’d insist on dragging them both into bed.  Marco would surely be asleep by now, but…he owed it to him to try. 

Marco’s phone went straight to voicemail, and Jean sighed and peered over the back of the couch with a certain feeling of premonition.  Sure enough, there was Marco’s ancient iPhone 3 charger, still plugged into the outlet and trailing across the floor.  He tugged it out of the socket with a fond eyeroll ( _phantom energy Marco! Save the planet! Save our electricity bill!)_ and coiled it up as he listened to the familiar message. 

“Hi, Marco,” Jean said softly, after the beep.  “I know you’re in bed already, but I wanted to make sure you remembered…I’m leaving for that conference tomorrow, over in the Cities.  It’s just the two days, so I’ll be back soon…have fun with Ymir, and I’ll…” he paused, probably too long for such a short message, running a hand over his face with at tired sigh.  “and I’ll see you when I come home, and—“

_“Message space exceeded.  Message ended,”_ Marco’s phone cheeped, and Jean groaned.

“—and I love you,” he said lamely, into the dead connection.

 

_“I must admit, I am quite impressed,” the Dragon said, banking lazily so that the Wizard’s head was soaked in a freezing cloud.  “It takes no little talent to get as lost as you have become, Wanderer.”_

_The Wizard grumbled, shaking condensing water from his hair.  He was seated on the Dragon’s scaly back this time, a position much preferable to dangling from his claws, even if the sharp ridges along his spine poked in rather personal places.  The Knight had the comfortable seat, just above the Dragon’s shoulders, and he lay along the Dragon’s broad neck, scratching that spot above his eyes again._

_He’d finally gotten high enough…when the Dragon’s wings beat down, the Wizard could at long last see the Kingdom laid out below him like a map, clear white roads and blue streams twisting among the trees, which were beginning to fade out into the rolling veldt of the great golden plains._

_“I cannot take you to your Tower,” the Dragon said, a hint of regret in its rumbling voice.  “Long have I wondered about your Prince’s capitol, but I dare not be seen there now.  Not when the Lord is away.”_

_The Wizard nodded.  “You’d prefer to remain dead?”_

_The Dragon snorted, and both humans on his back ducked away from the puff of flame that rolled back towards their heads.  “No one comes to kill you and steal your treasure when you’re dead.”  He rolled a stone-blue eye up to fix the Knight in his gaze, and his lips curled back in a bright-fanged smirk, and the Wizard found himself thinking about love again._

_His love for the Prince, his love for the Kingdome…a wolf’s love for two little pups who had found a home in him.  A huntresses love for the stag that should have been her quarry…_

_“It makes a far better fable, after all,” the Knight replied with a lazy smile, lying along his Dragon’s neck.  “Two mortal enemies felled each-other in battle, for neither may live while the other survives…what child wants to sing songs about two mortal enemies playing chess in front of the fire all winter?”_

_“What child wants to know his handsome hero_ cheats _at chess?” the Dragon mumbled, and the Knight smiled and flicked his ear._

_And this was love, too, of a sort.  The love of two souls who had lost everything else to find each other._

_The Dragon set him down at the edge of the Forest, where the trees had faded and tall golden grasses curled around his ankles._

_“Tell me truly, Wizard,” the Dragon said, in his cracked stone voice.  “Do you know your way home now?”_

_“I’m not sure yet,” the Wizard whispered, staring across the golden plains at the far distant horizon, where the sun was beginning to sink.  “But I am beginning to understand…there is not a single path to find it.”_

_The Dragon tilted his head and watched the Wizard for a moment, long and silent.  “Walk on, Wanderer,” he said, unfurling leather wings.  “Do not let what you believe to be right hide what is true.”_

_The Wizard set his back to the Forest, and strode out into the rolling grasslands._

**Next: The Lion and the Lioness**


	5. The Lion and the Lioness

_The rocky slopes of the mountains gave way gradually into the rolling hills and golden grasses of the plains, and the travel worn prince was glad of it. He was surer of his path now, but his injured ankle throbbed with every step and the flat, soft soil was a blessing after the sharp, treacherous rocks behind him._

_The sun sank lower as he toiled along, throwing fading, molten rays across the dark eaves of the Forest, away to the west.  The heavy trees loomed dark and foreboding at the edge of the plains, and the Prince was thankful he had not been foolhardy enough to attempt to traverse the forest road._

_He stopped to rest upon a grassy hilltop beneath the dark shadow of the Dragon’s Spire, the great spire of bare rock thrust like a naked sword blade out of the blanket of the forests.  At this late hour, its shadow stretched for miles across the flat, open veldt, long and straight as the paved roads ran in the Prince’s city, still yet many miles away._

_The Prince breathed out a weary sigh of regret as he rose to his feet again, staring down the winding, snakelike track still before him, and imagined for a moment that the long clear shadow of the Dragon’s Spire was a road that would carry him home.  Back to his city, his palace, a warm room and a soft bed and a pair of open arms—_

_So immersed had he become in his warm, embracing fantasy, a rut on the road escaped his notice and the Prince’s lame leg gave way beneath him, sending him tumbling down the gentle slope to sprawl aching and miserable at the base of the hill, once again in the shadow of the mountain._

Fool, _he berated himself, gasping breath back into starved and tired lungs._ Dullard, so busy imagining an easy road you failed to watch the one beneath your _feet…_

_The Prince struggled to rise and take his path again, but the more he tried the clearer it became that his wounded leg would no further carry him.  He lay on his back amidst the waving grass, watching the swirling path of a great dark bird, circling the spire far off above the forest.  As he gazed up at the sunset sky, the flying beast dipped low, and a tiny fragment of shadow, some hapless creature snared by the predator, tumbled loose from its claws and disappeared into the clouds ringing the spire’s tip._

_It looked like a far easier way to travel, the Prince reflected to himself, sitting up with a sigh.  He found his feet again and limped a few steps, before the pain forced him down again.  Seated on the ground, his head was barely higher than the swaying grasses, a rustling sea in all directions, rocking waves spurred by the wind, which grew ever more chill as the sun sank into the distant treetops._

_Something rustled, away to his left, a louder and more purposeful sound than the gentle sighing of the wind…footsteps? The Prince stumbled up, balancing on one weary leg, and scanned the open plains—_

_There! A dark shape, not too far east, cresting a hill…an animal, it seemed, born on four graceful legs…a horse? If it was a horse its rider surely could not be far distant.  The Prince summoned as much moisture as he could to wet dry lips, put two fingers in his mouth and unleashed a piercing whistle._

_The horse turned towards him, raising a broad head crowned with a glinting golden mane, and trotted down the hill…no, it didn’t trot, it padded, deliberate and graceful…and that mane was not the mane of a horse but the thick ruff of gold fur, crowning a round feline face…_

_The Prince sank back into the grass and shut his eyes, knowing that the tall grass of the plains was scarcely enough cover when one had just whistled to summon up a lion._

Marco stood by the side of the road, staring at the nail embedded deeply in his car’s right rear tire, which was growing flatter by the minute, and fervently wished he knew some better swear words.  Or had a better idea of how to change a tire. 

Or had a spare tire that wasn’t _also_ flat, that would probably be the better place to start. 

He let out a long, frustrated whining noise, briefly imagined Jean calling him a teakettle, and climbed back into the front seat.  His phone blinked feebly from the cupholder, tethered to the dash by a frayed car charger.  Marco seized it and shook it to life, hoping against hope…but still nothing. Six percent battery, two bars, no internet access. 

Freaking _peachy._

At least the view was nice.

Marco huffed his bangs out of his eyes and flopped back against the seat, staring out the windshield at the sun sinking down behind the hills.  This part of the country was largely cattle pasture, and it was _beautiful_ at the right time of day.  Especially in autumn, when the tall grasses turned red and gold and shifted like waves in every gust of wind.  The heavy band of clouds that had blanketed everything for a few days was finally moving off, and Marco’s car had chosen to blow its tire right beneath the retreating edge of the front.  The heavy, honey-colored rays of the low sun hit the steel-gray underbelly of the low-hanging clouds, lighting up the panorama before him in a heady contrast of sunlit gold and gunship gray, making Marco’s fingers itch for his tablet pen, or even a sketchbook.  Anything to capture that blazing sunlit contradiction before it slipped away.

He settled for shutting his eyes tight, trying to hold the image in place in his mind until he had the means to somehow capture it.  After a long moment he opened his eyes again, and his gaze slipped sideways and settled on his phone.  _You’re pathetic,_ he berated himself, as his fingers typed in the passcode to unlock his voicemail.

“ _You have. No new messages.  First saved message. Sent. Today at. Two. Fifty Three. AM.”_

Marco tapped the speakerphone button and shut his eyes again, holding his phone close to his chest.

“ _Hi, Marco,”_ said Jean’s staticky, electronic voice.  “ _I know you’re in bed already, but I wanted to make sure you remembered…I’m leaving for that conference tomorrow, over in the Cities.  It’s just the two days, so I’ll be back soon…have fun with Ymir, and I’ll…and I’ll see you when I come home, and—_ “

And Marco winced, just like he had on every other replay, as his phone’s pitifully tiny memory cut off the message, and what he hoped (suspected? Feared?) were the two words he _really_ kinda sorta needed to hear right then. 

_Just text him you pansy,_ he thought…but Ymir had made him promise, and Ymir was generally right.  _Use the time apart, cool your head a little…_ Jean’s grad-student buddies would keep an eye on him at the conference, a little regional affair, and Marco would keep himself occupied…

He sighed and plucked a painfully pink Post-It off the dashboard, staring at the words in Jean’s angular scrawl.

_Sunny & Bean Vineyard/Winery, Tasting,_ _Friday OR Saturday morning only, Hanji—_

And then a mostly illegible address and telephone number, contact information for the appointment Jean must have made and then forgotten about as he rushed off to his conference.  Which he’d probably _also_ forgotten about, Marco thought, laughing quietly to himself. 

He’d found the post-it when he’d gotten home that morning, well on its way to disappearing under the fridge (a fate that awaited most of Jean’s attempts to get organized.)  Keeping the appointment for him felt like a good peace-offering for when Jean got home, getting himself involved a little more.  Marco had a far better taste for wine than Jean did anyway.

It had seemed like such a _good_ idea, mending a few bridges, getting something productive done, a nice peaceful drive to the vineyard ninety minutes away…through this apparent black hole of cell phone reception where his tire had chosen to give up the ghost. 

Maybe he should do something about that, Marco reflected, rather than sit behind the wheel watching the sunset and waiting for either rescue or death.  Marco _loved_ planning, but he had a history of faltering on the follow-through.  Getting shit done was _Jean’s_ area of expertise…he’d never known Jean to be so gung-ho for making plans before this whole wedding debacle, and it occurred to him with a guilty little _sting_ that maybe if he’d been more involved in planning from the beginning, _maybe_ Jean wouldn’t have exploded into such a ball of stress as their wedding neared. 

Speaking of getting shit done…Marco sighed, looking at his phone again. The sun was getting lower and the increasing wind outside hit the broad side of the car hard enough to rattle the windows in their cracked rubber frames, and it was probably time to stop moping and/or waiting for death to come claim him and do something about this flat tire situation.  Jean had a Triple-A membership…pity Marco never got around to saving the number like he’d always meant to, and he had no internet to look it up for himself.  And he was more than an hour away from home and any friend he could call for a rescue.  Only ten minutes from the big city and Jean’s conference though…his thumb hovered over Jean’s speed-dial again…just get him on the line and get him to call Triple-A…

No, that was no good.  He was in this mess trying to _help_ Jean, not stress him out even more with a popped tire and a stranded fiancé in the middle of a conference.  Marco heaved a sigh, scrolling through his contacts for ideas.  Jean no, Levi too far, Mikasa too far, Mom on the other side of the _Atlantic…_ Nanaba...now _that_ was an idea.

Nanaba was family, Ymir’s mother’s half-sister – no, _sibling,_ Marco corrected himself dutifully, remembering the request they’d made the last time the complicated, conjoined tree had assembled.  _Sibling_ not sister, and _they_ not she.  But more importantly, they lived in the city (the scary-ritzy part of the city.) They’d at least be able to recommend him a towing company that wouldn’t _completely_ bleed him dry. 

Marco hit _dial,_ feeling pleased with himself.  Early evening on a Friday…he might clip dinnertime, but at least they’d probably be home.  As long as it was Nanaba who picked up the phone, and not—

The call connected, answered by a deep male voice on the other end of the shaky connection.

“Mike Zacharius, who’s calling?”

\--not their crazy-intimidating husband Mike, Marco thought, sinking down behind the steering wheel.

“ _H-hi!”_ Marco squeaked into the phone.  He winced at the octave his voice hit, and immediately checked to make sure the crack in the driver’s side window hadn’t spread any.  “U-uh hi Uncle Mike, this is Marco? Ymir’s brother? I mean Nanaba’s nephew – your nephew um—“

“Oh! Hey, kid.”  The smooth, all-business tone disappeared from Mike’s rumbling voice, replaced by something much lighter and friendlier.  “Been awhile since we heard from you.  What’s the occasion?”

_Oh no occasion, just calling a major TV producer at home on a work night over a blown tire,_ Marco thought, feeling slightly hysterical.  Why oh _why_ didn’t Nanaba answer the phone?

“I uh…sorry for calling at such a weird time, but um.  I got a flat tire in your neck of the woods? And my phone’s not getting any 4G?”  Marco winced as he heard himself phrasing every sentence like a question.  Somewhere in the back of his head, Jean and all his public speaking experience rolled his eyes.  “S-so could you…do you know a good tow place I could call?  To get my car off the road, y’know?”  _I hope I’m not delaying the next episode of Game of Thrones or anything?_

“Sure, no problem.”

“R-really?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Mike said.  It sounded like he was talking around a mouthful of something.  “Actually.  Where’d you say you are?”

“O-oh. Um.”  Marco twisted his head to the right; fortunately, he was stopped right next to a mile marker.  “Highway 50, east of town?  I’m…like five miles from that winery place? Sunny ‘n something—“

“Oh, Sunny and Bean’s? Hanji’s place, sure.  Tell ya what, just stay put.  I’ll grab a patch kit and come get ‘cha.  Save you the money.”

“Oh God, you don’t have to do that,” Marco squeaked, squirming against the stained upholstery of his seat.  “Don’t put yourself to the—“

“ _No_ trouble, kid.” Mike interrupted him lightly.  “I remember what my bank account looked like in graduate school.  Besides, we haven’t seen you since your sister’s wedding.”  There was a series of thumps on the other end of the line, and the sound of a garage door opening.  “Be there in twenty minutes.  ‘Bye!”

“B-bye!” Marco stuttered, far too late.  Mike had already hung up.  Marco slumped down until his forehead was level with the steering wheel, dug the heels of both hands into his eyes, and let out a long, squeaky groan that had more in common with a teakettle than it did a grown-ass man.  “ _I’m so screwed.”_

_Classic_ Marco, he reflected, once his moan finally ran out of air.  Attempt to save your stressed-out fiancé a trip, end up tanking the evening of one of the most important people in American TV.  _Wheeeeee._

Mike had intimidated the _hell_ out of Marco ever since he was a teenager, and knowing that there was absolutely _no_ reason to be scared of the guy somehow made it worse.  Truth be told, he was one of the nicest people Marco had ever met; a gentle soft spoken giant of a man who seemed to drift through life completely unaffected by the phenomenal success of every project he touched.

It’s just that he _also_ happened to be absolutely everything Marco _wasn’t,_ unflappable and self-possessed and hard-working and sort of effortlessly attractive (especially if you were a poll-voting reader of _People_ magazine, apparently) and just so _so_ far removed from his perpetually flustered, freckly, doodling and daydreaming nephew, who was invariably either overdressed or underdressed for everything.  

“Why is everyone so _nice_ all the time?” Marco mumbled to himself.  “’s so annoying.”  _I can’t wait to tell Jean about this one,_ he thought, idle and automatic, and then his heart twisted unpleasantly.  Stranded in the hill country, waiting for rescue in the form of his fabulously wealthy and successful uncle.  You could almost _picture_ Mike arriving in shining armor to sweep him off his feet.  It was just like one of Jean’s beloved fables.  _Jean…_

Marco sighed deeply, and opened up his voicemail box again.

 

_The Prince was young, but he had ruled wisely and ruled well for a fair few years.  He was of sound mind and level head, warm and brave and free of fears that so often plague the greedy and the weak when they find themselves with the power they covet._

_Except for cats._

_The Prince did not get along with cats.  He did not get along with cats at all.  Only one man in all the world knew of this flaw in the Prince’s heart, and that man took it as ammunition to tease him at every opportunity.  And that was_ normal _cats, the small bullet-headed mousers that inhabited the palace grounds and were always underfoot._

_The cat approaching him now was of a size to put the finest horses in his stable entirely to shame.  The Prince shrank low amongst the grasses, and tried not to look like a mouse._

_“Hello, small mousling,” came a growl from the nearby hilltop.  The Prince let out a nervous squeak, and regretted it immediately.  Long stems sighed against the wind as a great shape passed through them, every footstep silent and inevitable as nightfall.  Hot breath stirred the Prince’s hair, and then the Lion spoke again._

_“Small mousling, I cannot help but observe.  You appear to have partially lacerated several digito-axial ligaments via some form of torsion trauma.  Am I correct?”_

_The Prince opened his eyes._

_The Prince opened his mouth._

_He did little else until the Lion chose to clarify.  “I believe you have a twisted ankle.”_

_“O-oh. Yes.  Yes, I fell, high up in the mountains.”_

_“You have been on quite the journey, then,” the great cat rumbled, bowing his crowned head low to examine the Prince’s injured leg.  He did not use his wide-set eyes, but instead sniffed thoroughly around the Prince’s makeshift splint (the Cobra and the Mongoose, though most gracious hostesses, were not well supplied for human first aid), and even brushed the swelling with the tip of a broad pink tongue rough as tree bark._

_“This is no mortal wound,” he declared eventually, a faint rumble of amusement coloring his words, “But it needs rest.  As do you, Traveler.”_

_The Prince nodded, his head already heavy with exhaustion and the fading shocks of pain.  “It is to my good fortune that the weather has remained fine,” he said, with a shrug of sore shoulders.  “And these grasses are fair shelter.  Tired as I am, I have no doubt I could find rest in an alligator’s mouth.”_

_He had meant the comment merely as a jest, but when he raised his eyes his weak smile quailed in the face of the Lion’s frown.  The great beast padded closer on silent feet, claws the length of the Prince’s fingers cutting furrows in the earth, and lowered his head until they were nose-to-nose, golden eyes glowing in the fading light._

_“Your two-legged kind may rule the Cities of the South, Traveler,” the Lion growled softly, “But here on the golden plains you are a trespasser in my domain.  I am ruler of these lands.”  The Prince quailed, and the Lion’s voice took on a softer edge, his heavy head tilting gently to one side.  “And what kind of guardian would I be if I left a wounded traveler to nurse his injuries in the cold night?  To shiver and suffer with no food and no shelter but what the tall grass offers?  What king…or Prince…” (and there was a faint glint of knowing in his tawny hunter’s eyes) “Would willingly walk away from one that he could help?”_

_“Y-your offer is most generous,” the Prince stuttered, edging away on his hands.  He thought to rise, but even the act of scooting himself along the ground sent deep bolts of pain spiking up his leg, and he knew it was futile.  “But I am as you say a trespasser…I have no right to set foot upon your lands, much less impose upon you for aide—“_

_“Is it_ custom _among humans to refuse an offer of hospitality made with all good faith?” The Lion enquired with amusement.  He came closer one more time and knelt beside the Prince, forelegs bent upon the ground so his head was level with the Prince’s chest.  “If you are so prideful as to fear an offer of a resting place, I doubt I would ever convince you to ride upon my back. Therefore—“ he nudged his broad head under the Prince’s arm and stood again, slow and gentle, easing the Prince to his feet so he leaned across the Lion’s shoulder like a gold-maned crutch.  “Come back to our den, Traveler.  Rest the night with a shelter over your head and be on your way in the morning.  My Lady would never forgive me if I left another blood creature to shiver in the open.”_

“I _really_ don’t want to impose…” Marco was still protesting awkwardly, even though his car (and its neatly patched and re-inflated tire) was parked outside Mike’s big garage and his uncle was leading him up the steps to the back door. 

Mike just casually waved him off, holding the door for him.  “Nana would _kill_ me if I let you stay in a hotel,” he said, with a catlike grin.  “Besides, I’m pretty sure they want to interrogate you about wedding planning.” 

Marco groaned loudly, and then blushed when Mike laughed.  “Spoken like a true groom-to-be.”

From the outside, the Zacharius’ big home (maybe just one step short of a mansion) was as intimidating as the man himself, an old stone building with the look of an Alpine lodge, all massive weathered timbers and heavy gray stones.  But inside…inside was, well, _homey._ Warm and comfortable and more than a little messy, decorated with an amalgamation of interesting odds and ends that probably all had stories behind them. The house felt like an extension of the people who lived there, warm and tough and eclectic…and above all, loving. 

 “Tea?” Mike asked, pulling an honest-to-god copper kettle off a hook above the stove. 

“That sounds lovely,” Marco said, peeling off his damp jacket with a sigh.  “This is _really_ nice of you…”

His uncle’s thick blonde mustache shifted in a way that suggested it was concealing a smile.  “What else is family for? Especially with your mom back over in Belgium.”  The kettle started to bubble and whistle, and Mike fished a couple mugs out of a cluttered cabinet as Marco padded into the kitchen and settled himself on a tall barstool at a stone island in the center of the kitchen.  “She’s gonna make it back for the wedding, right?”

Marco nodded and rubbed his eyes; it had been a _very_ long day and it was starting to catch up to him.  “If there even _is_ a wedding…” he mumbled, barely aware he was speaking aloud. 

Mike tilted his head to one side and Marco squirmed and blushed under the very long, quiet look Mike gave him.  Then he silently produced a bottle of what looked to be extremely expensive bourbon and spiked both mugs of tea with great solemnity.   

 

“-- _So_ I figured since I screwed up just about everything _else_ and then ran out on him the least I could do was keep his appointment at the vineyard while he was at the conference, and then my tire blew out on the highway and…yeah…” Marco trailed off, mostly ‘cause he’d run out of oxygen, and took another sip of tea,  the fuzzy warmth of the bourbon mixing with jasmine and lavender on his tongue and running down his throat to add to the glow in his stomach.  “This is _really_ good…like _really_ good, mmmmm.”

“Hanji’s a good call,” Mike said, not bothering to hide his amusement as his flushed nephew enthusiastically drained the last of his tea.  “She was with me and Erwin overseas, did you know that? Same regiment.  Although she had a habit of running off with Levi and the other guys we weren’t supposed to know about…the ‘independent contractors…’” he said, with finger-quotes that practically _dripped_ sarcasm.  He trailed off for a moment, staring at the wall and clearly lost in the past, before he shook himself back to the present.  “ _Anyway._ She’ll cut you a damn good deal.  Probably cheaper than any plain ‘ol open bar…better stuff, too.  She can do classy when she wants to.  Well. When she _has_ to.  And I mean _absolutely no other choice_ has to.” 

Marco grinned, (the warm, head-swimming relaxation of the bourbon helped) but it wasn’t quite enough to shake the gnawing guilt in the pit of his stomach, as the realization sunk in that he’d underestimated Jean once _again._ He’d assumed the local wines thing was just another one of Jean’s desperate excesses, when it was actually a carefully sought out deal that would save them money and _improve_ the quality of their wedding.  His fingers found their way back to his phone, nestled in his pocket, battery already worn down from replaying a certain voicemail over and over and over again.  _Jean, baby, I’m so sorry…_

He was jolted out of his nascent guilt spiral when the back door banged open, heralding a blast of chilly air and a lot of rustling grocery bags. 

“ _Marco!_ This is such a nice surprise!” His aunt (?) Nanaba kicked the door shut behind them and reached out to hug him, slightly encumbered by the canvas sacks dangling from both hands.  “I’m sorry, I hoped I’d beat you back in time to have something for you to eat.”

“Fastest patch-kit in the West,” Mike said with a grin and a pair of finger guns, leaning back on his stool to kiss his partner as they bustled by.  (He was still taller sitting down than Nanaba was standing up.)

“Oh, no, you don’t—“

Mike shook his head.  “What _is_ it with you Bodts and your aversion to getting a hand with something every now and again?”

“He gets it from his mother,” Nanaba said, unpacking the grocery bags across the granite countertops.  They paused to brush a kiss against Mike’s cheek, and then elbowed him hard in the ribs.  “You’re taking up counter space.  Begone!”

Mike and Marco dutifully retreated to the cushy sitting room towards the back of the house, and Marco seized the opportunity to look around the richly decorated space a little more.  Nanaba’s architecture and interior design education was apparent everywhere he looked; the place could have been the cover of an interior decorating magazine.  But it was warm, real…a _home,_ not just the impersonal status symbol of a rich producer. 

There was a framed wedding photo sitting on a little table just inside the sitting room door.  Marco paused, setting down his tea to pick it up, still lost in thought. 

Their wedding had been a true fairy-tale-princess affair, Marco vaguely recalled. (He’d been about five at the time and fuming with the absolute _indignity_ of being required to wear a tie.)  The kind of wedding you’d _expect_ for a hot-shot young producer and his beautiful debutante bride.  Nanaba and the team (it had been _that_ kind of wedding) had transformed the several acres the house stood on, lights strung throughout the trees and lining the path they’d created.  In the picture, Mike and Nanaba stood hand-in-hand beneath a lacy white arch.  Nanaba’s train reached all the way down the steps behind them, and the photograph had been taken as a gentle breeze ruffled through the golden curls of their hair, which back then had been a waist-length waterfall of liquid gold, the kind of hair any number of girls would’ve sold their souls for.  Their makeup matched the hair, delicate and perfect as a china doll and somehow…not quite right.  A mask of everything society expected of _her,_ including being a _her_ in the first place.  Not the bright, lively person yelling profanity under some loud clankings coming from the kitchen, hair cropped into short curls around their ears and somehow so much more _alive._

“I love that picture,” Nanaba said, right over his shoulder, and Marco jumped and almost dropped the heavy frame. 

“It was a great wedding, wasn’t it?” Marco said with a wistful smile.  “Just completely perfect…”

Mike and Nanaba both instantly burst out laughing.  Nanaba shoved the tray of snacks into Marco’s hands and doubled over, wheezing. 

“It was a _mess.”_ Mike chortled.  “Total Murphy’s law catastrophe, God…after the money we spent, and all the _planning…_ it was one thing wrong after another.”

“O-oh?”

“Why do you _think_ I love that picture so much?” Nanaba said, wiping their eyes.  “See Mike’s hand?”

“Yeah?”  Mike’s hand rested on Nanaba’s narrow waist in the photo, over a bodice covered with the kind of intricate beading that could only be done by hand.

“He’s _glued_ to me.  Nine _thousand_ dollars that dress cost, and the bodice split _wide_ open thirty seconds before I was supposed to walk down the aisle.”

Marco’s eyes widened, his face heating up in sympathetic embarrassment. 

“My sisters literally _duct taped_ it back together while the music was playing.  Sticky side up.  I could hear the tape tearing all the way down the aisle, but it held together…until Mike went in for the kiss and put his hand on my waist…”

“Oh _no.”_ Marco buried his face in his hands, laughing in spite of himself. “Oh _no…”_

“Stuck right to it,” Mike said with a grin.  “So we’re standing there in front of two hundred people and the God-forsaken cameras, both of us trying not to just lose it while the priest my mom insisted on is reading this _long-ass_ prayer about how marriage is the _cleaving of two souls together,_ never to be parted and we’re literally _glued together…”_

“That’s _horrible.”_

“Best day of my life,” Nanaba giggled, flopping over next to Mike and flinging their legs across his. 

“Do you…do you regret it at all?” Marco asked softly.  “Having something so big and fancy, with…with so many things to go wrong?”

He knew it was an awkward question and fully expected an awkward pause…so it came as a shock when his aunt and uncle replied, in unison, without a second’s hesitation.

“ _Hell_ no.”

“Can’t hold out for perfection, kid,” Mike said with a smile, wrapping his arm around Nanaba’s shoulders.  “Nothing’s _ever_ perfect, and why would you want it to be?  I’ve forgotten all the stuff that went _right._ We spent too much time laughing about the ‘cleaving of two souls…’”

“By the bonds of holy matrimony and also duct tape.”

“And definitely not by whatever thread that dressmaker used…”

_Everything going wrong was the best part…_ Marco thought to himself, draining the last of his tea as he listened to them laugh, and thought about all the hours he’d spent agonizing over every potential disaster in Jean’s wedding plans, every terrifying thing that could go wrong and leave them in that most horrifying of all dilemmas…needing to ask for _help…_

“So have you thought about a layout for dinner yet?” Nanaba asked, setting their mug aside and leaning forward.  “’Cause I could make a few suggestions.  Save you some stress in the long run.”

And sometimes help came to you, from the direction you least expected it, Marco thought, stifling a laugh at his own expense.  He fished out his phone and opened up the google docs folder full of Jean’s elaborate designs.

Thank God for blown-out tires.

 

_When the sun rose over the golden grassland, the Lion guided the Prince back out to the winding road running south.  The Prince moved perhaps with more care now than befitted a man so young, but his leg took his weight with only the faintest protest, and he began to feel his strength returning._

_“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said softly, removing his arm from the Lion’s broad shoulders.  (The Lion had insisted, to save his injured leg any further strain.)  “I must once more apologize for my imposition.  I wish I had not—“_

_“Do not apologize for being injured, friend,” The Lion said, with a shake of his mane.  “You mistake folly for humility, chasing perfection that can never be attained and blaming yourself when you fall short.”_

_“But the fault was only mine—“  The Prince protested, before a low growl cut him short._

_“You are human,” the Lion said, voice low but not unkind.  “Mortal.  Flesh and blood.  There is strength in accepting help, Traveler, you would do well to remember that.”_

_They stood in silence, regarding each other for a long moment.  A deep shadow swept over the between them – the wings of some great soaring bird wheeling high above the plains, following the path of the road in lazy arcs.  The Lion glanced up, and his fangs gleamed slightly in a smile._

_“Walk on, Traveler.  What you seek may now be closer than you know.”_

_The Prince bowed low to the King of the Golden Plains, and turned to walk on, down his winding road._

 

**_Next: The Angel and the Demon_ **


	6. The Angel and The Demon

_The Wizard stood before the high walls of his Prince’s city.  The sun balanced on the edge of the crenelated stone, and then began to slip below it, and the deep shadow of the walls spilled out across the plains, across the miles upon miles of well-worn road.  The road the Wizard had followed for hours untold, to finally bring him here, to the very gates of his home._

_The gates were locked._

_The Wizard curled his hands around the bars and let his forehead fall against them with a rattling thump.  All these years he’d come and gone through these gates without a thought.  On rare late nights when the gates were_ closed, _they still swung open at a touch.  His_ Prince’s _touch.  His Prince was the key to these gates, to the city and the land and the hearts of his people._

_The Wizard gave up at the futile task of rattling the bars and let himself slide down to the ground, leaning his back into the cold stone and shutting tired eyes.  He’d walked so far with his eyes fixed on these walls, watching them grow just a little closer and thinking with every step that he was almost home._

_And now he was home, and he wasn’t home.  He wasn’t home at all.  His Prince wasn’t here.  The gates were locked, and ‘home’ was somewhere far behind him on the cold lonely road, home was that crossroad deep over the eaves of the Forest, where he’d last seen his true love smile._

_The walls above his head were high and thick, and much too smooth to climb.  There were tricks a Wizard could use, to charm his way through the gate’s cold black bars, but this Wizard was so tired he could scarcely_ think _of any magic, let alone summon up the energy to use it._

_For a moment, he entertained a wild fantasy of running back the way he’d came, trying to flag down the Dragon before he flew too far.  The Dragon would not dare come close to the walls themselves, but if they flew high enough perhaps the Dragon could_ throw _him...as long as he aimed for the river…_

_The Wizard shook himself, rubbing his hands down his cheeks with a shake of his head. The Dragon had already done him a great service, and the Wolf and his Wolfhound.  They had shown him kindness and courtesy far beyond anything he had earned, and this last hurdle was_ his _to conquer.  He would find a way, some way to open these gates, find the strength to set himself back on the road and find his love again, he would--_

_He would sit here and watch the stars come out for a little while, The Wizard decided, as his sore muscles throbbed._

_Someone would probably open the gates in the morning anyway._

_The night air was cool, but not too cold, not now that his robes had finally dried, and the walls were reassuringly firm and solid against his back, and the Wizard found himself drifting away into sleep as the stars winked on one by one in the steadily darkening sky.  But something was keeping him from sleep, something niggling away in the back of his tired mind, tugging at his fuzzy senses…_

_Years ago, when the Prince came into rulership of his kingdom, the borders of the lands were besieged by demons, foul fiery creatures that cracked their way up through the kingdom’s rich brown earth in gouts of smoke and sulfur.  After generations of fighting, the young Prince became the first of the human rulers to put an end to the skirmish, and sign a treaty with the very demons of hell.  He allowed the demons to hunt for food in the forests and plains, as long as they stayed far away from the walls of his city and the citizens of his land…and enlisted the help of a certain arrogant young Wizard, to construct a magic circle around the entire kingdom, a reminder of the treaty and the boundaries the demons had agreed to keep._

_A magic circle the Wizard was currently sitting on top of, as he drifted in and out of sleep beneath the stars.   A magic circle that was normally invisible to the unaided eye, and was now pulsing and flickering fitfully upon the earth of the kingdom, like water flicked on boiling iron.  A magic circle which, in the Wizard’s absence, had gone untended for a very long time._

_The Wizard’s eyes flew open a moment before the line beneath his feet flared and sparked…and then went dark, as burning cracks shot across the ground at the base of the wall.  The earth shattered in a gout of flame and smoke, and a clawed red hand thrust up into the oil, glowing hot as iron from a forge, its talons grasping at the air._

 

Jean stood at the top of the stairs, staring blankly at the scuffed apartment door.  He rattled the doorknob a few more times, and then let his forehead thump into the hollow pressboard as he patted at his coat pockets, hoping for the miraculous appearance of keys other than the ones for his University rental car.  It wasn’t that he didn’t know where his keys _were:_ he could picture them with crystal clarity in his mind’s eye.  Sitting next to the sink.  In his hotel room. About three hours away.

It was, once again, approaching 3 am, thanks to a late-running closing banquet and a semi jackknifed across the turnpike in the high winds.  He’d pulled off at a service station somewhere in the asscrack of the state and downed an entire can of Monster (disgusting, disgusting Monster,) so rather than being absolutely dead-tired to his bones, he was absolutely dead-tired to his bones _and_ unpleasantly jittery.  And locked out.  And alone.  And his phone was almost dead, and he could feel a migraine coming on…

He _could_ just go downstairs and get Levi to let him in, but…well, this was _his_ goddammned problem, after Levi and Erwin had already hauled him in out of the rain and fixed their printing problems and fed him coffee.  (And, if he was being _really_ honest, his survival instincts were balking at the prospect of waking up an ex-mercenary at three in the morning to let him into his apartment.) 

Jean heaved a deep sigh and down on the top step, pulling out his phone again and staring at the blinking red “low battery” light as he tried to hammer some sort of logical plan out of his fuzzy brain.  If he was gonna call _anyone,_ he’d better do it soon…didn’t Marco give a spare key to someone, a year ago, back when they first moved it? It was some king of…peace offering…one of Marco’s friends who was worried about him moving in with his boyfriend…oh right.

Fuckin’ _Eren._

The last person on the _planet_ Jean wanted to see right at that moment.  The one person on the planet who’s help he desperately needed.  Jean groaned loudly, vaguely aware of some kind of _thump_ making the stairs shake under him.  He steeled himself and scrolled through his contacts, ignoring a second, closer sound _,_ and jabbed Eren’s name with gritted teeth. 

There were rhythmic vibrations coming up the stairs towards him…and some kind of distant, tinny jingling, like a phone ringing.  Jean got to his feet, meaning to head down the stairs and find out what the _heck_ that noise was before Levi woke up and killed something…and something large, solid, and heavy slammed into him at considerable speed, and knocked him flat on his ass.

 

_The Wizard just barely managed to scramble clear as the great rent in the ground split wide and pale, grasping hands found a hold on the earth, long black nails scoring deep grooves in the dirt as they scrabbled for purchase.  Thick, corded muscles knotted under skin that seemed far too thin, as though the muscles flexing beneath it might burst it like parchment at any moment, and the Demon dragged itself onto the road before the gates of the kingdom._

_Demons were not unknown to the Wizard – he had butted heads with a few in his day, and truth be told, though they looked monstrous they were often naught but cowards.  But they were_ strong, _and violent, and quick to anger, and he was cold and hungry and badly in need of rest.  He could do nothing but back away, trying not to tremble, as the Demon’s shaggy head rose out of the rift in the ground, lank black hair falling over pallid skin stretched tight over a skeletal face._

_The thing kicked and scrabbled and dragged itself onto the ground, where it crouched on flat, bony feet, the lines of the Wizard’s broken magic circle flaring against the ground like the lights of angry fireflies and every bit as ineffective.  It moved like an animal, some great hairless ape, hands too large for skinny dangling arms and bulging, calloused knuckles brushing the earth as it turned in a slow circle, raising its head to sniff the cool pure air being tainted by the acid smoke._

_The Demon’s slow, shuffling, sniffing dance brought it around to face the Wizard, pressed against the barred gate, and there it froze, pulling in a great snorting breath like a bull about to charge.  Burning emerald eyes, wide and bright and blazing, fixed upon the Wizard’s face through its curtain of stringy hair, and the thing’s jaw dropped low, black mouth opening far too wide to be anything called human.  The snarl was a thing_ felt _rather than heard, rumbling up through the Wizard’s feet and vibrating low in his chest, and it took him a moment to realize there were words within the sound._

_“The gate is barred.”_

_The Wizard glanced from the approaching creature to the high, locked gate above his head, and chanced a nod._

_“The gate is barred,” repeated the Demon, and the Wizard quailed way as long, clutching fingers reached out and rough talons snagged the travel-worn fabric of his robes.  “And the Circle fails.  We could hunt in the City if we so chose.  The circle fails.”_

_The Wizard ground his teeth together, reaching for reserves he knew he did not possess, some kind of strength to fight back this disaster imminent by his absence, the rebirth of a war he should have_ been _here to prevent—_

_The Demon’s burning, bruising grip on his shoulders disappeared, and the Wizard’s eyes flew open in surprise.  The Demon crouched back on its haunches, peering up at him with its too large eyes, head tilted to the side._

_“Why the gate barred?” It asked, and its voice was gentle and querulous, and somehow childlike…and a little afraid.  “Why does the Circle fail?” It leaned forward, like it wished to come closer again but thought better of it, and it’s deep voice trembled as it asked “Why is the Prince not home?”_

_The Wizard stared down at the thing in shock, and a few small details that had escaped his bleary notice became apparent.  The Demon was long-limbed and powerful, yes, and its mouth gaped too wide and had too many teeth, but the thing was skinny and hunched and…really not very big.  And now that he came to look at it closely, not very frightening at all.  And its large, round eyes were wide and…wet with tears?_

_“You are worried for the safety of the Prince?” he asked, and his voice was gentle in spite of himself._

_“We like the Prince,” the little Demon replied, scratching idly at the grass with a long hooked talon.  “He is kind.  He spoke to us as people, as_ comrades, _not as animals with too much anger.  He saw our sadness when no one else was willing to look.” It tilted its head to the side again, watching the Wizard warily through its hair.  “And now his gates are locked too much, and his Circle fails, and we began to wonder…”_

_“The Circle is not tended by the Prince,” the Wizard pointed out._

_“No…” The Demon shook his head, and the Wizard suspected that, if it had lips, it would be pouting.  “It is tended by the prince’s Wizard.  We don’t like him so much.”_

Goes both ways, ugly, _the Wizard thought, but the Demon was not done speaking._

_“…but we know the Prince loves him.  We know he brings the Prince great happiness, and we worried…if the Circle was not tended, if the Prince no longer had the Wizard by his side…we worried…”_

_The Wizard did not trust himself to speak.  He raised a hand, trying to hide the way it shook, and covered his mouth as the Demon went on._

_“We do not like the Wizard so much…he is sharp edged, and quick to anger, and…rather too much like us…but we like to see him beside his Prince.  The world has not always been kind to us,” the little Demon said, and its eyes were nothing but honest.  “Too hot or too cold and no softness or light to be seen, so we became like the world we saw…but the Prince and his Wizard remind us.  They remind us there is love, love to be found in the strangest of places.  They make us hope that one day…that one day there may be love for us as well.”_

_The Wizard bowed his head, shoulders shaking, and he was grateful that the darkness hid the tears of shame that dripped down his face.  But before he could find the composure to speak again, blinding light pierced down out of the night-black sky, and the Wizard looked up through eyes that swam with tears to see a figure clothed all in white descending from the sky._

Jean’s breath left him with a _whoosh_ as he fell backwards, hitting the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth in his skull _,_ and he’d barely managed to lift his head and get his bearings again before two ridiculously strong hands clamped onto his shoulders, pinning him to the floor.

“ _Why are you here alone why isn’t Marco here did you cancel the wedding did you break up with Marco don’t tell me you broke up you_ can’t _break up!”_

_“Eren?”_

Eren Jaeger scramble off of Jean, but he got no chance to catch his breath before Eren was hauling him bodily upright.  Jean managed to shake loose, backing away with wide eyes, before Eren dove right back into his space and clutched at the damp collar of his jacket, pushing Jean back into his door.

“You _can’t_ break up you can’t break up with Marco you have to marry Marco you two are _so perfect_ for each other Jean you have to be together you _have_ to get married you can’t call off your wedding, where is he did he run away or something Jean you have to find him you _can’t_ cancel your wedding if you and Marco can’t make it work there’s no hope if you two aren’t together no one else has a chance you’re perfect you two are what true love looks like if you break up with Marco _all love is dead!”_

Eren stopped talking only because he’d absolutely run out of oxygen, and gasped in a couple ragged breaths through his mouth.  Then he closed his lips again, and the next breath sounded…almost like a sniffle.  Jean had been all wound up to snap something nasty, but it died on his tongue as the Eren’s desperate explosion of words sank into his brain.  He just stood there, still pinned to the door, staring down into Eren’s wild green eyes and looking for the _faintest_ trace of insincerity…and finding nothing.  There were tears, honest to God _tears,_ welling up in Eren’s big eyes and clinging to his lashes, threatening to spill down his cheeks at any second. 

“You and Marco _can’t_ be over,” he said again, much softer, and Jean swallowed a groan as Eren’s lower lip actually started to _quiver._

“We aren’t.”

“I mean I barely made it this far I’m fucking up _everything_ if you and _Marco_ can’t survive getting married there’s no way—“ Eren broke off suddenly, and there was the definite sense that his brain had just paused to catch up with his ears. “Wait, what?”

“We _aren’t_ over,” Jean repeated, managing to force down the slightly crazy laugh that bubbled up in his throat at the look on Eren’s face.  “We just needed a break, we kind of had a…a stress overload.  He went to hang out with his sister for a couple days.”

Eren blinked up at him, and then looked down at his hands fisted in Jean’s shirt like he’d only just realized they were there, and let him go like a hot potato.  “Oh…oh. Um.”

“What’re you doing out this late, Eren?” Jean asked, gently as he could manage in his sleep deprived state. 

“What am _I—“_ Eren blew out an annoyed breath through his nose, and his face settled back into the belligerent scowl Jean was _far_ more used to having aimed his way.  “What’re _you…_ ugh.   Whatever.  My flight just got in, I went up to see my mom, and then I got back, and I had a text from Reiner saying you and Marco were…uhm…”

“Were?” Jean prompted, raising his eyebrows with a grin.

“Uh…” Eren fished his phone out of his pocket, looking a little guilty.  “Were…taking a couple days to decompress, now that I think about it…I just kinda panicked, ‘cause I thought…” He broke off, and gave his phone a confused glare.  “Wait, why did _you_ just call me?”

“Oh.”  Jean collapsed back against the door with a moan, the traitorous deadbolt rattling in its socket as his weight hit it.  “Right. That.  I don’t suppose you’ve got that spare key Marco gave you.”

“Not _on_ me, no, why…” Eren caught Jean’s expression. “Oh. _Oh._ Er.  Uh oh.”

“Yeah.”

Silence settled over the landing, and they just stared at each other awkwardly for a moment.  Until, belatedly, _Jean’s_ brain caught up with his ears.

“Whaddaya mean _all love is dead?”_

Eren looked embarrassed, backing away again and rubbing at the back of his neck.  “Sorry man, I panicked, it just came out…I just…God, every time I get scared about me and ‘Kasa, which is _all the fucking time,_ mind you, I’ve been thinkin’…I think of you and Marco, okay?  And how great you two are together, and how perfect you work, and the way you guys _look_ at each other, and…I mean, _look_ at me Jean!” Eren burst out, his eyes starting to well up again.  “I’m not smart and graceful and hot like you, I’m not kind like Marco, there’s not a single thing about me that isn’t average, except that I’ve got _her._ I’d almost talked myself out of proposing at Connie’s wedding, you know that?  I had it all planned out and I got cold feet, I thought there’s no way, there’s just no way I’m worth it, but then I look at _you_ guys, and the way Marco’s got his arm around you and you’re both smiling like there’s nothing else in the world that matters and… and I think…well…if love like _that_ exists, there’s gotta be something left over for a dumbass like me, right?”

Jean stared at Eren for a long, long time. 

Then he sniffled.

“You were _scared?_ But…but it was so fuckin’ _perfect!_ The…the bouquet with all those little messages, and—“

“Aw _hell!”_ Eren exploded fisting, his hands in his hair.  “That was _Armin’s_ idea! _Armin’s!_ My freakin’ _asexual aromantic best friend_ is better at romance than me! You thought I could come up with something like that on my own? I thought I was gonna piss my pants right there in the crowd!”

Jean stared at Eren, his flushed, tearstained, jetlagged face, the raw honesty and emotion in his cracked voice, and did the only thing he could logically do. He sat down in front of his locked door, cradled his head in his hands, and laughed until he couldn’t breath.  After a moment, Eren joined him, and in a few minutes they were leaning on each other for support, wheezing for air in concert.

“ _Eren?”_ a soft voice called from the bottom of the stairs.  “Eren, are you up there? What are you doing?”

Jean’s head popped up off his arms as Eren scrambled to his feet with a guilty expression. All he could see through his streaming eyes was a tall, slender figure, dressed in blinding white with hair like ebony, outlined golden in the glow of the hallway lights.

“Uh,” said Eren, voice still cracked from laughing.  “Hey, Mikasa…”

 

_The Wizard and the Demon stared with matching awe and disbelief, hair ruffling in the sudden draft of glowing wings as the Angel settled before them in the road._

_“Hello, little monster,” she said to the Demon, who crouched and blinked his too-wide eyes before the Angel’s alabaster hand reached out to touch his hair, the gesture one full of familiarity and comfort.  “You are very far from home tonight.”  Her gaze turned upon the Wizard, who found himself enraptured by her eyes, cool and dark and very warm.  “As are you, Wanderer.  You have come quite some way, haven’t you?  And still not where you wish to be.”_

_The Wizard shrugged, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “The gate is locked.”_

_The Angel’s smile did not waver, but the Wizard thought he saw a flash of gentle pity in her eyes._

_“Perhaps not quite the path you seek, my friend,” she said, coming to stand beside him at the gate.  She reached up with one delicate finger, and rested it against the heavy iron lock.  “But at least I can remove the bars between you and a bed.”_

_The Wizard thought he had never heard a music more beautiful and true than the sound of the deadbolt shooting back—no, than the sound of the iron lock falling from the bars and landing on the floor…the dirt of the road, not the floor, of course, and the Angel turned her brilliant, starlit eyes upon his face and said, “Get out of your head, moron, the door’s open.”_

“Huh?”

“Earth to Jean, paging Jean, your _door_ is _open.”_

“You’re an actual angel, Mikasa,” Jean said with a grateful groan, slumping through his front door and collapsing boneless on the couch.

“Nah, just a cop,” she replied with an amused half-smile. “Which is why you definitely did _not_ see these…” she slipped the roll of lockpicks back into her jacket and tugged Eren through the door.  “Rough week, huh, Shadowfax?”

“He almost _broke up_ with _Marco,”_ Eren mumbled, as Jean groaned loudly and unhappily at the old nickname.  Eren shambled over to the couch and flopped down next to Jean, and picked up one of the endless wedding folders spread across the coffee table.  “Hey, if your wedding _is_ still on, what’re you doing for music, I haven’t got a clue—“

“Does Marco still have that electric kettle in the kitchen, Jean?” Mikasa asked, her clear, musical voice cutting through her fiance’s rambling.

“Huh? Yeah…”

“Why don’t you go make us all some tea, Eren,” Mikasa said firmly, reaching over to ruffle his hair.  “And _then_ we can talk about you running right past me at the airport in some kind of panic and diving straight into a cab.”

Eren vanished into the kitchen so fast a small sonic boom knocked a few folders off the coffee table, and Mikasa watched him go with a small smile, before she turned back and reached down to gather up the scattered papers.

“So,” she said, quirking an eyebrow at all the forms and catalogues and orders in her hands.  “Wanna talk about it?”

Jean sighed and buried his face in his hands.  “I fucked up,” he mumbled.

To his surprise, Mikasa actually _laughed,_ albeit softly.  “Alright, that’s a start.  So. What are you going to do about it?”

Jean peered at her over the edges of his fingers, and blinked.  “Uhm. I don’t know, honestly.”

“Well.  Look at all _this.”_ Mikasa waved her hand over the buried coffee table.  In the kitchen, Eren rattled through the cupboards and swore under his breath.  “What’s it all for? What do you want out of your wedding?”

“I wanted it to be _perfect,”_ Jean said softly, and maybe it was just the exhaustion but his eyes were stinging again.  “I wanted to give him the best wedding anyone’s ever had, I wanted to show him what he _means_ to me, what he _is,_ he’s _everything,_ he deserves so much more than I could ever give him…I just…”

“Okay, so you want the wedding to be perfect.  But that’s just a _party,_ Jean.  Anyone can throw a party, people do it every day.”

_“You want to be_ home, _high in your tower, safely locked away with your books and your bed and your favorite wine,” the angel said, beneath the arch of the open gate.  “But your tower is just a building, there’s places like it all over the world.  There’s other copies of your books.  There will be more wine.  That’s not what makes it_ home.”  _The Wizard looked up to meet her eyes, and she rested a hand gently on her shoulder._

Mikasa leaned across the couch and gently took both his hands in hers.  “Forget about the party.  Forget the ceremony, Bert could do it in his sleep.  At the end of the day, when it’s all over and in the past, just a bunch of pictures in a book, what do you want out of your wedding? What’s the one thing you _really_ want?”

_The Wizard looked from the Angel under the archway, to the winding road outside the gate, to the warm, lit windows of his high tower he’d dreamed of for so many cold and lonely miles._

_“It’s not home unless he’s there with me.”_

Jean looked down at their hands, blinking rapidly as his nose burned and the tears flooded his tired eyes.  _What do you want out of your wedding? What’s the one thing you really want?_

“I want to be married to Marco,” he whispered. 

“Well, that’s a bit of luck then.”  There was a shadow in the open door, leaning against the doorjamb with one long leg crossed gracefully over the other, limned with the dim gold light from the hallway. 

Marco slipped into their apartment and pulled the door shut behind him, and Mikasa sat back with a smile as he leaned over the back of the couch and wrapped his arms tight around Jean’s shoulders.

“’Cause I’d rather like to be married to you.”

_The Angel stepped away and smiled to herself, as the Wizard and the Prince gazed into each other’s eyes, standing on either side of the open gate arched over the long, cold road._

_“Welcome home, Wanderer.”_

**_Next:_ **

**_Jean and Marco_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go!


	7. Jean and Marco

“You’re sure about this. I mean you’re really _really_ sure about it, it’s not too late to change your mind if you still wanna, we don’t _have_ to go through with it...it’s such a big life decision after all, it could really change a lot, so if you don’t want to go through with it I get it, I really do. I wouldn’t blame you at all if you want to change your mind, everything would still be okay, so if you wanna change your--”

“ _Eren,”_ Jean said, cutting off his friend’s torrent of words with a roll of his eyes. “Why are _you_ getting cold feet when _I’m_ the one getting married?”

Eren hopped from foot to foot, tugging at the blue bow tie around his neck in a way that put Jean in mind of a puppy trying to scratch off a flea collar. “I dunno man, I still can’t get it though my head that you want _me_ for this...hell, up until a couple weeks ago I thought you still hated my guts after that time I gave you a black eye in eighth grade.”

Jean blinked, then flicked his eyes up to the ceiling, trying to recall the moment in question.

“Wellll...if we’re thinking of the same uh...incident...I seem to recall cracking one of your teeth, so I think we’re square. Plus I deserved it.”

Eren grinned at that, even if his nervous fidgeting didn’t completely stop. “I don’t even remember what that fight was _about_ anymore.”

“Me either.” Jean shot him a lopsided grin. “If it was before my eighteenth birthday I just kind of _assume_ I deserved it. Besides.” Jean actually paused, taking a rare moment to line up his words before he spoke. “Listen, Eren. I have made many friends in my life -- God only knows how -- but of all those people, only _one_ particular spaz was so panic-stricken by the _thought_ of me and Marco breaking up that he ran straight into a cab at three in the morning to come try and _fix_ it somehow.” He reached out and clapped both hands on Eren’s shoulders, slightly marring the stiff creases in Eren’s steam-pressed tuxedo. “And I can think of no better indicator of who my best man should be.”

Eren ducked his head and smiled, his tan cheeks faintly pink. “So you don’t wanna switch me out, is what you’re saying?”

“Never in a million years,” Jean replied, with absolute finality. “Besides,” he added, as not-too-distant music began to drift in through the windows, “now might be a _little_ late to go looking for a new best man.”

“Hey. Idiots.” Jean and Eren both jumped as the door to the sunny little outbuilding opened and Levi stuck his head through. “Lose track of time, Kirschtein?” He asked, with a very warm, very genuine smile. “It’s eleven.”

Jean bit his lip around the huge grin threatening to break through the thin veneer of composure he’d managed to maintain all day, letting Levi tug him over to the doorway.

“C’mon, kid.” Levi leaned up enough to kiss Jean on the cheek. “Time to get married.”

Outside, a little way off down the hill that stretched away outside the door, music began to play.

* * *

“If you smile any wider,” Ymir said, slinging an arm around Marco’s shoulders and knocking her forehead gently against his, “the top of your head is gonna fall off, baby brother.”

“ _Eeeeeee_ ‘m gettin’ _marriiieeeeeeeeed--”_

Ymir rolled her eyes. “So you’ve mentioned. Repeatedly. At thirty second intervals.” She scratched the back of her neck with the stems of her bouquet and muttered to herself, “ _Remind me again why I agreed to this maid-of-honor thing...”_

“Matron.”

“What.”

“Matron of honor,” Marco corrected, somehow managing to maintain his dreamy ear-to-ear grin even when he spoke. “You’re married, so you’re my _matron_ of honor.”

“Gross. Sounds old.”

“Yup, it suits you.”

“ _What was that,_ dear _baby brother?”_

_“Eeeee married married married--”_ Marco had clearly drifted off into his own giddy happy place again, twirling his engagement ring around his finger.

“Honey, you ready?” Christa leaned through the door, looking around for Ymir, and rolled her eyes herself at Marco’s dreamy expression. “Tether the man of the hour down to something before he floats away. It’s almost time!”

Marco’s smile lit up the room, and he tucked his own bouquet under his arm to adjust the white bow-tie around his neck, leaving it a little more crooked than it had been before. Ymir tugged him over to the doorway and linked one arm through his, and their tiny, cherubic Belgian mother leaned up to kiss his cheek before she took up station on his other side. Christa blew him a kiss and held the door open as, a little way off down the hill that stretched away outside the door, music began to play.

* * *

_After many winding roads, after many long cold nights and many miles and many lonely days, there was only one path. Only one path in all the land left for them to walk._

_They walked it together._

_The Wizard held his Prince’s hand tight, and as the cool night wind dried the sweat of many miles from his cheeks and pushed the heavy clouds from the sky, he tilted his head up and traced his eyes across the heavens, seeking out the patterns he’d been taught to see in the stars as a child...a huntress, with her arrow drawn on a stag, a serpent and a mongoose, a dragon, a lion, a wolf, a knight in shining armor with his wolfhound at his feet._

_Traveller’s dust puffed and swirled around their weary feet, but the road no longer seemed so long and tiresome, and as the Prince’s strong arm found its way around his Wizard’s waist, he closed his eyes, remembering..._

It took a couple of arguments before they agreed to decide by coin-flip. And then the best two of three coin-flips. And then five of seven. And then seven of nine, and by the time they were up to best 33 out of 35 and five quarters had been discarded as ‘unbalanced and therefore biased’ they gave up on the black and white solution.

Marco wanted to walk down the aisle to Jean. After all, Jean proposed to him, and _he_ had the engagement ring on his finger. That made _him_ the “bride” analogue. It was only fair.

Jean wanted to walk down the aisle to Marco. After all, Jean’s tux had cost more, and he’d done most of the planning and had the ensuing freakout that made most of his friends and family question his sanity. That made _him_ the “bride” analogue. It was only fair.

In the end, they came to a compromise. Sasha had offered them the use of her parent’s sprawling acreage, and it came with a nicely located little garden shed, a fair distance from the house. So they’d face their audience away, looking out over the pretty rolling hills. Jean would start from the shed. Marco would start from the back porch of the house. They’d meet in the middle, and they’d walk down the aisle together.

It was only fair.

 

“ _Walk on Wanderer,” said the Huntress, her bow unstrung and put away. “Sometimes you must travel further than you thought to end up right back where you started. But you will know the way to walk, even when the roads look strange. Remember which way your true home lies, and walk on.”_

_“Walk on, Wanderer,” said the Wolf, with his children by his feet, their little bottle brush tails wagging in the dust. “And remember, do not fear the shadows if you only guess at what they hold. Let your heart set your path, not your fear of that which has not happened yet.”_

_“Walk on, Wanderer,” said the Cobra, curled up tight in her warm, safe burrow. “Walk on with clear eyes, and look for friends, not enemies. Do not seek strife where there is none. Do not let difference blind you when love is right before your eyes, and walk on.”_

_“Walk on, Wanderer,” said the Dragon, perched upon his rocky spire. “And remember to be thankful for what you have. Do not take for granted the love that found you, even if it was in a place you never thought to look. Remember you are loved, and lucky to be loved, and walk on strong.”_

_“Walk on, Wanderer,” said the Lion, lying beneath a tree where he surveyed his great golden kingdom. “And remember than you do not stand alone. There is strength in self reliance, yes, but there is strength also in knowing that you need a friend to lean on. The man who learns to stop running and rest will be happier than the man who chases perfection alone. But when you are rested, Wanderer, rise and walk on.”_

Ymir led Marco’s party, and Eren lead Jean’s, and they met at the back of the little cluster of chairs as all their friends rose to their feet around them. Mikasa and Christa met them there, and the man and maid of honor handed off their bouquets and linked arms, giving Jean and Marco a long, perfect moment to just _look_ at one another.

Marco had, for reasons known only to him, tugged a huge white gardenia out of his bouquet and stuck it behind his ear, where it was slowly beginning to wilt in the fine spring sun, big lacy petals drooping down over his face and nearly hiding one eye. He grinned at Jean, face lighting up, and tried to wink around his flower eyepatch, and Eren glanced over his shoulder and smiled as Jean stifled a laugh. His father hugged him tight around the shoulders and his mother pecked his cheek, and then both their parents stepped back and nudged the two frozen young men forward. Marco held out his hand, and Jean took it, and looked to Eren.

“ _Lead the way,”_ he whispered, and they let their friends lead them down the aisle.

 

“ _Don’t be afraid to lose your way,” said the soft, gentle voice of a kind little demon, in the back of the Wizard’s mind. “There’ll be times in your life when you slip off the path, and when those times come we’ll be there to find you. We’ll be there to remind you that it’s just a few steps more, that someone’s waiting for you if only you can set your feet back on the road. We’ll be there for you to lean on when you’re tired.”_

_“When all you can see is the shadows, we’ll be there to hand you a candle,” said the Angel, taking the hand of her little demon and smiling her soft, gentle smile. “We’ll give you the spark to get the fire burning again, let you see what you’ve been missing, stumbling around in the dark. We’ll be there when you need us, to give you a push in the right direction when you’re lost. Or to break into your apartment with a bunch of illegal lockpicks when you’ve left your keys in a hotel room--”_

Mikasa elbowed Jean in the ribs, and he snapped out of his reverie, lost in the glow in Marco’s eyes, in time to hear Bertholdt say “Kiss your husband, gentlemen.”

Jean leaned forward on the tips of his toes, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation, and kissed a pungent mouthful of gardenia petal.

Their friends laughed, Jean sputtered, Marco blushed, and they got it right the second try, just a quick, warm brush of lips before they both burst out laughing.

It was a little sticky, and it tasted a lot like flower preservatives, and it was perfect.

* * *

 

“OhmyGod. Ohmy _God,_ Jean, _wow.”_

“Already. Married five hours and _already_ with the laughing at me”

“Yeah but...but _wow--”_ Marco dissolved into chortles again, and Jean belted him in the face with a feather pillow.

They lay side by side on top of the king-sized satin comforter that graced the bridal suite of a four-start hotel, a leisurely day-drive yet to a honeymoon cabin in Steamboat Springs. Jean had kicked off his pants with great relief the second the door closed behind them, (due more to his general dislike of pants than any specific agenda,) but otherwise they were still fully clothed, just taking a moment to appreciate not being in a car anymore.

“So that’s where your brain runs off to without me,” Marco mused, grinning distantly at the ceiling, cheeks still a little sore from the amount of smiling he’d done that day.

“Yup.”

“Our very own Aesop fable.”

“Apparently.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Jean rolled his head to the side, and found Marco watching him, upside down, still wearing his giant, dreamy smile. “ _Never_ leave me again.”

“Oh I don’t know.” Marco chuckled and rolled onto his stomach, reaching out to pull his husband (his _husband,_ his mental thought process had to grind to a halt to roll the word around his head, his _husband, his husband, his husband)_ close. “I kinda liked it.”

“Really?” Jean snuggled into his side and twined their fingers together, holding their joined hands up in front of his face and turning them so the light sparkled off two fine gold bands.

“ _Really.”_ Marco tugged his hand free, but only so he could wrap both arms around Jean’s shoulders and roll them so they were nose to nose, just a hair’s breadth away from kissing, and snuggled tight together. “In fact,” he paused to drop a soft kiss against his husband’s lips, “I think you should write it all down someday.”

“Ya think anyone would want to read that?”

“I think a few people might.”

 

_And they lived happily ever after_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I decided to go out on a limb and offer fic commissions last summer, I didn't really know what to expect. I certainly wasn't expecting a 30,000 word commission that would wind up taking me most of 9 months to complete!   
> But what's really made doing commissions fun is the fact that I ended up writing a lot of things that never in a million years would have occurred to me otherwise, and this was definitely one of those. I've never done a wedding story. I've never done a romantic comedy. I don't know if I ever would have done either of those things if not for this commission, but I'm glad I did! It's been a fun little journey with these two very very nervous grooms-to-be and their very very lost Aesopian counterparts, and Mike the lion and Levi the dragon and Eren the demon with a heart of gold, and I hope you've enjoyed being along for the ride!
> 
> Thank you
> 
> ~Emily

**Author's Note:**

> [My commission info](http://kenjiandcompany.tumblr.com/post/92397170941/kenjiandcompany-kenjiandcompany-so-you-know)


End file.
